July 17, 2025 • 26 mins
Delve into the riveting religious autobiography of Apologia Pro Vita Sua. Experience the simple yet profound narrative that drastically shifted public perception of its author and solidified his deep convictions leading him to the Roman Catholic Church. Revered as one of the most widely read autobiographies in the English language, it holds a significant place in the 19th century, akin to Boswells Johnson in the 18th century.
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter four, Part six of Apology of pro Vita Sua
by John Henry Cardinal Newman. This labor of Art's recording
is in the public domain recording by Bill mc gillivray.
In the autumn of eighteen forty three, at the time
that I spoke to doctor Pusey, I asked another friend
also to communicate in confidence to whom he would the
(00:24):
prospect which lay before me, to another friend, mister James Hope. Now,
mister 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, no more exactly my state of feeling than
(00:48):
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 tranquility when I had nothing
(01:11):
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
(01:33):
to tease and to distress, not to persuade. I wrote
to him on Michaelmas Day, eighteen forty three, 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.
(01:57):
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
twenty second, I wrote to him, Pucy has quite enough
(02:19):
on him, and generously takes on himself more than enough
for me to add burdens when I am not obliged,
particularly two 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 twenty first half past ten, I am
(02:41):
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
(03:02):
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, et cetera. No, I have
nothing to bear but the anxiety which I feel for
my friend's anxiety for me and their perplexity. This is
(03:24):
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 kindness and best wishes to you,
my oldest friend, whom I must not speak more about,
and with reference to myself, least you should be angry.
(03:47):
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's good
and gracious descends upon you and yours from the influence
of this blessed season, and it will be so. So
be it, for what is the life of you all
(04:07):
as day passes after day, but a simple endeavor to
serve him from whom all blessings 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 thoughts of you. It is your blessing
to have a clear heaven and peace around, according to
(04:29):
the blessing pronounced on Benjamin footnote Deuterotomy thirty three twelve,
end of footnote. So it is, my dear b and
so may it ever be. 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
(04:52):
brought none. I made a note which runs thus, I
sob bitterly over his coffin, to think that he left
me still fuel dark as to what the way of
truth was and what I ought to do in order
to please God and fulfill his will. I think I
wrote to Charles Marriott to say that at that moment,
(05:12):
with the thought of my friend before me, my strong
view in favor 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. Two footnote
on this subject feed my third lecture on Anglican Difficulties,
also note e Anglican Church and a footnote I wrote
(05:37):
to another friend thus, September sixteenth, eighteen forty four. 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 determination of so blameless a life of
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one who really fed on our ordinance and got strength
from them and seized 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,
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because of the steepness of the way. Only may we
be kept from unlawful security. Least 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
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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 eighteen forty I listened to the
rising death in favor of Rome, now I listened to
(07:03):
the waning doubt in favor 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
(07:23):
on these vague misgivings. I must do my best and
then leave it to a higher power to prosper it. So,
at the end of eighteen forty four, I came to
the resolution of writing an essay on doctrinal development, and
then if at the end of it my conviction in
favor of the Roman Church were not weaker of taking
(07:45):
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 sixteenth, eighteen forty four. I am going through
what must be gone through, and my trust only is
(08:06):
that every day of pain is so much taken from
the necessary draft 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 on settlement, alarm skepticism,
(08:30):
which I am causing to so many, and the loss
of kind feelings 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 urgin unmitigated one. I had
for days a literal ache all about my heart, and
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from time to time, all the complaints of the Psalmist
seem 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 hominum to this
(09:16):
person or that footnote vide Supra Page two, nineteen, et cetera.
Letter of October fourteenth, eighteen forty three compared with that
of October twenty fifth, end of footnote. But I am
not conscious of resentment or disgusted at anything that has
happened to me. I have no vision whatever of hope,
(09:38):
no scheme of action in any other sphere more suited
to me. I have no existing sympathies with Roman Catholics.
I hardly ever, even abroad, was it one of their services.
I know none of them. I do not like what
I hear of them. And then how much am I
giving up? In so many ways? And to me sacrifices
(09:59):
erupt not only from my age when people hate changing,
but from my especial love of old associations and the
pleasure 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
(10:21):
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, namely 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
(10:44):
is to fall back into skepticism. A thousand thanks for
your most kind and consoling letter. Though I have not
yet spoken of it, it was a great gift. 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 satis quo for a considerable time, trusting
(11:06):
that my friends will kindly remember me at my trial
in their prayers, and I should give up my fellowship.
Some time before anything further took place, there was a lady,
now a Nune of the Visitation, to whom at this
time I wrote the following letters. One November seventh, eighteen
forty four, I am still where I was. I am
(11:28):
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.
(11:51):
But the when and the how are known to him
from whom I trust. Both the course of things in
the issue come wisha of opinion in the latent and
habitual feelings 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
(12:12):
own feelings. Least they should mislead me. By one sense
of duty, one must go, but external facts support one
in doing so. Two January eighth, eighteen forty five. What
am I to say in answer to your letter? I
know perfectly well I ought to let you know more
of my feelings in state of mind than you do know.
(12:34):
But how is it possible? In a few words, anything
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 anything with it to show its bearing
upon other parts of the subject. At present my full
(12:57):
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 the residents at Oxford, And
I don't know whether I can wish it. The state
of the Roman Catholic is at present so unsatisfactory. This
(13:18):
I am sure of that nothing but a simple direct
call of duty is a warrant for anyone leaving our church.
No preference of another church, no delight in its service,
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
(13:39):
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
(14:00):
occasional in a Roman Catholic Chapel unless a man has
made up his mind pretty well to joining 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. Three March thirty. Now
(14:22):
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
(14:43):
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 forever 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
(15:04):
attend 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
and settling people. Anyhow, I can't avoid giving incalculable pain.
So if I had my will, I should like to
(15:25):
wait till the summer of eighteen forty six, 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 treaties between that and Christmas. I wish
people to know why I am acting, as well as
(15:47):
what I am doing. It takes off that vague and
distressing surprise what can have made him for June one,
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,
(16:08):
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 anyone taking
my part. Various measures were, I believe, talked of in
consequence of this surmise. Coincidentally with it appeared an exceedingly
kind article about me in a quarterly in its April number.
(16:32):
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 Saint Mary's, he had
the future race of clergy. Hearing him, did he value
and feel tender about in clinging to his position? Not
at all, no sacrifice to him. Perhaps he did not
(16:54):
care about such things. There was a censure implied, however, covertly,
in these words words, and it is alluded to in
the following letter, addressed to a very intimate friend, April third,
eighteen forty five. Accept this apology, my dear Church, and
forgive me. As I say so, Tears come into my
(17:15):
eyes that arise from the accident of this time, when
I have giving up so much I love just now.
I have been overset by James Moseley'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.
(17:36):
The feeling of repentance has not even come into my mind.
How could it, How could I remain at Saint Mary's
A hypocrite. How could I be answerable for souls in
life so uncertain with the conviction or at least persuasions
which I had upon me. It is indeed a responsibility
to act as I am doing, and I feel his
(17:57):
hand heavy on me without intermisi, who is all wisdom
and love, so that my heart and mind are tied out,
just as the limbs might be of 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
(18:20):
in the English Church, with my convictions my love to
marry it 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
(18:41):
quote some sentences from it, for the love which I
bear him and the value that I set on his
good word. January fifteenth, eighteen forty five. You know me
well enough to be aware that I never see through
any things. At first, your letter to Baddely cast a
gloom over the future, which you can understand if you
(19:01):
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 in guidance, has been generous
(19:24):
and considerate, and were the word appropriate, dutiful, to a
degree that I could scarcely have conceived possible more unsparring
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
(19:46):
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, partially embitted by
what I have heard. But I am willing to trust
even you, whom I loved best on earth, in God's hand,
in the earnest prayer that you may be so employed
(20:06):
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 mister Newman's 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
(20:27):
will be seen how few will go with him. I
had begun my essay on the development of Doctrines in
the beginning of eighteen forty five, and I was hot
at it all through the year till October. As I
advanced my difficulties so clear away that I ceased to
speak of the Roman Catholics and boldly call them Catholics.
(20:47):
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
Passionate House at Aston near Stone, by Father Dominic the Superior.
At the beginning of October. The latter was passing through
(21:08):
London to Belgium, and as I was in the same perplexity,
what steps to take for being received myself. I assented
to the proposition made to me that the good priests
should take little more on his way, with a view
to his doing for me the same charitable services as
he had done to my friend. On October the eighth,
(21:29):
I wrote to a number of friends the following letter
little more October eighth, eighteen forty five. 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,
(21:51):
sent here. But he has little to do with conversions.
I saw him here for a few minutes on Saint
John's Baptist day life last year. He is a simple
holy man, and withal gifted with remarkable powers. He does
not know of my intentions, but I mean to ask
of him admission into the One Fold of Christ. I
(22:12):
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,
et cetera, et cetera. P s. This will not go
till all is over. Of course, it requires no answer
for a while after my reception, I propose to betake
myself to some secular calling. I wrote thus in answer
(22:35):
to a very gracious letter of congratulations sent me by
Cardinal acton November twenty fifth, eighteen forty five. 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
(22:58):
wishes at a distance attad much more importance to my
step than really belong 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
(23:18):
been far more talk for good and bad than he deserves,
and about whose movement far more expectations 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.
(23:41):
So now much as I may wish to the contrary
and earnestly as I may labor, 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 those who pray for the
peace of Jerusalem. If I might ask of your Eminence
(24:03):
a favor, 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,
(24:26):
Doctor Wiseman, in whose vicar at Oxford lay, called me
to oscot and I went there with others. Afterwards he
sent me to Rome and finally placed me in Birmingham.
I wrote to a friend January twentieth, eighteen forty six.
You may think how lonely I am oblivisa populum tuum
(24:47):
et dominum patris tuhey has been in my years. 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 twenty third, eighteen
forty six, on the Saturday and Sunday before. I was
in my house at littlemore simply by myself, as I
(25:09):
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 mister Johnson's, at the Observatory.
Various friends came to see the last of me, Mister Copeland,
mister Church, mister Buckley, mister Patterson, and mister Lewis. Doctor
(25:30):
Pusey too came to take leave of me, and I
called on doctor Ogley, 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
(25:52):
Oxford life. Trinity had never been unkind to me. There
used to be much snap dragon growing on the walls
up sit my freshman rooms there, and I had for
years taken it as the emblem of my own perpetual residence,
even unto the death in my university. On the morning
of the twenty third, I left the observatory. I have
(26:14):
never seen Oxford since, accepting its spires as they are
seen from the railways. Footnote at length. I revisited Oxford
on February twenty sixth, eighteen seventy eight, after an absence
of just thirty two years. V Day additional note at
the end of the volume, end of footnote, end of
chapter four
Chapter four, Part six of Apology of pro Vita Sua
by John Henry Cardinal Newman. This labor of Art's recording
is in the public domain recording by Bill mc gillivray.
In the autumn of eighteen forty three, at the time
that I spoke to doctor Pusey, I asked another friend
also to communicate in confidence to whom he would the
(00:24):
prospect which lay before me, to another friend, mister James Hope. Now,
mister 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, no more exactly my state of feeling than
(00:48):
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 tranquility when I had nothing
(01:11):
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
(01:33):
to tease and to distress, not to persuade. I wrote
to him on Michaelmas Day, eighteen forty three, 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.
(01:57):
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
twenty second, I wrote to him, Pucy has quite enough
(02:19):
on him, and generously takes on himself more than enough
for me to add burdens when I am not obliged,
particularly two 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 twenty first half past ten, I am
(02:41):
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
(03:02):
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, et cetera. No, I have
nothing to bear but the anxiety which I feel for
my friend's anxiety for me and their perplexity. This is
(03:24):
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 kindness and best wishes to you,
my oldest friend, whom I must not speak more about,
and with reference to myself, least you should be angry.
(03:47):
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's good
and gracious descends upon you and yours from the influence
of this blessed season, and it will be so. So
be it, for what is the life of you all
(04:07):
as day passes after day, but a simple endeavor to
serve him from whom all blessings 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 thoughts of you. It is your blessing
to have a clear heaven and peace around, according to
(04:29):
the blessing pronounced on Benjamin footnote Deuterotomy thirty three twelve,
end of footnote. So it is, my dear b and
so may it ever be. 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
(04:52):
brought none. I made a note which runs thus, I
sob bitterly over his coffin, to think that he left
me still fuel dark as to what the way of
truth was and what I ought to do in order
to please God and fulfill his will. I think I
wrote to Charles Marriott to say that at that moment,
(05:12):
with the thought of my friend before me, my strong
view in favor 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. Two footnote
on this subject feed my third lecture on Anglican Difficulties,
also note e Anglican Church and a footnote I wrote
(05:37):
to another friend thus, September sixteenth, eighteen forty four. 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 determination of so blameless a life of
(05:57):
one who really fed on our ordinance and got strength
from them and seized 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,
(06:17):
because of the steepness of the way. Only may we
be kept from unlawful security. Least 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
(06:40):
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 eighteen forty I listened to the
rising death in favor of Rome, now I listened to
(07:03):
the waning doubt in favor 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
(07:23):
on these vague misgivings. I must do my best and
then leave it to a higher power to prosper it. So,
at the end of eighteen forty four, I came to
the resolution of writing an essay on doctrinal development, and
then if at the end of it my conviction in
favor of the Roman Church were not weaker of taking
(07:45):
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 sixteenth, eighteen forty four. I am going through
what must be gone through, and my trust only is
(08:06):
that every day of pain is so much taken from
the necessary draft 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 on settlement, alarm skepticism,
(08:30):
which I am causing to so many, and the loss
of kind feelings 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 urgin unmitigated one. I had
for days a literal ache all about my heart, and
(08:52):
from time to time, all the complaints of the Psalmist
seem 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 hominum to this
(09:16):
person or that footnote vide Supra Page two, nineteen, et cetera.
Letter of October fourteenth, eighteen forty three compared with that
of October twenty fifth, end of footnote. But I am
not conscious of resentment or disgusted at anything that has
happened to me. I have no vision whatever of hope,
(09:38):
no scheme of action in any other sphere more suited
to me. I have no existing sympathies with Roman Catholics.
I hardly ever, even abroad, was it one of their services.
I know none of them. I do not like what
I hear of them. And then how much am I
giving up? In so many ways? And to me sacrifices
(09:59):
erupt not only from my age when people hate changing,
but from my especial love of old associations and the
pleasure 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
(10:21):
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, namely 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
(10:44):
is to fall back into skepticism. A thousand thanks for
your most kind and consoling letter. Though I have not
yet spoken of it, it was a great gift. 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 satis quo for a considerable time, trusting
(11:06):
that my friends will kindly remember me at my trial
in their prayers, and I should give up my fellowship.
Some time before anything further took place, there was a lady,
now a Nune of the Visitation, to whom at this
time I wrote the following letters. One November seventh, eighteen
forty four, I am still where I was. I am
(11:28):
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.
(11:51):
But the when and the how are known to him
from whom I trust. Both the course of things in
the issue come wisha of opinion in the latent and
habitual feelings 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
(12:12):
own feelings. Least they should mislead me. By one sense
of duty, one must go, but external facts support one
in doing so. Two January eighth, eighteen forty five. What
am I to say in answer to your letter? I
know perfectly well I ought to let you know more
of my feelings in state of mind than you do know.
(12:34):
But how is it possible? In a few words, anything
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 anything with it to show its bearing
upon other parts of the subject. At present my full
(12:57):
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 the residents at Oxford, And
I don't know whether I can wish it. The state
of the Roman Catholic is at present so unsatisfactory. This
(13:18):
I am sure of that nothing but a simple direct
call of duty is a warrant for anyone leaving our church.
No preference of another church, no delight in its service,
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
(13:39):
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
(14:00):
occasional in a Roman Catholic Chapel unless a man has
made up his mind pretty well to joining 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. Three March thirty. Now
(14:22):
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
(14:43):
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 forever 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
(15:04):
attend 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
and settling people. Anyhow, I can't avoid giving incalculable pain.
So if I had my will, I should like to
(15:25):
wait till the summer of eighteen forty six, 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 treaties between that and Christmas. I wish
people to know why I am acting, as well as
(15:47):
what I am doing. It takes off that vague and
distressing surprise what can have made him for June one,
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,
(16:08):
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 anyone taking
my part. Various measures were, I believe, talked of in
consequence of this surmise. Coincidentally with it appeared an exceedingly
kind article about me in a quarterly in its April number.
(16:32):
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 Saint Mary's, he had
the future race of clergy. Hearing him, did he value
and feel tender about in clinging to his position? Not
at all, no sacrifice to him. Perhaps he did not
(16:54):
care about such things. There was a censure implied, however, covertly,
in these words words, and it is alluded to in
the following letter, addressed to a very intimate friend, April third,
eighteen forty five. Accept this apology, my dear Church, and
forgive me. As I say so, Tears come into my
(17:15):
eyes that arise from the accident of this time, when
I have giving up so much I love just now.
I have been overset by James Moseley'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.
(17:36):
The feeling of repentance has not even come into my mind.
How could it, How could I remain at Saint Mary's
A hypocrite. How could I be answerable for souls in
life so uncertain with the conviction or at least persuasions
which I had upon me. It is indeed a responsibility
to act as I am doing, and I feel his
(17:57):
hand heavy on me without intermisi, who is all wisdom
and love, so that my heart and mind are tied out,
just as the limbs might be of 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
(18:20):
in the English Church, with my convictions my love to
marry it 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
(18:41):
quote some sentences from it, for the love which I
bear him and the value that I set on his
good word. January fifteenth, eighteen forty five. You know me
well enough to be aware that I never see through
any things. At first, your letter to Baddely cast a
gloom over the future, which you can understand if you
(19:01):
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 in guidance, has been generous
(19:24):
and considerate, and were the word appropriate, dutiful, to a
degree that I could scarcely have conceived possible more unsparring
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
(19:46):
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, partially embitted by
what I have heard. But I am willing to trust
even you, whom I loved best on earth, in God's hand,
in the earnest prayer that you may be so employed
(20:06):
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 mister Newman's 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
(20:27):
will be seen how few will go with him. I
had begun my essay on the development of Doctrines in
the beginning of eighteen forty five, and I was hot
at it all through the year till October. As I
advanced my difficulties so clear away that I ceased to
speak of the Roman Catholics and boldly call them Catholics.
(20:47):
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
Passionate House at Aston near Stone, by Father Dominic the Superior.
At the beginning of October. The latter was passing through
(21:08):
London to Belgium, and as I was in the same perplexity,
what steps to take for being received myself. I assented
to the proposition made to me that the good priests
should take little more on his way, with a view
to his doing for me the same charitable services as
he had done to my friend. On October the eighth,
(21:29):
I wrote to a number of friends the following letter
little more October eighth, eighteen forty five. 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,
(21:51):
sent here. But he has little to do with conversions.
I saw him here for a few minutes on Saint
John's Baptist day life last year. He is a simple
holy man, and withal gifted with remarkable powers. He does
not know of my intentions, but I mean to ask
of him admission into the One Fold of Christ. I
(22:12):
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,
et cetera, et cetera. P s. This will not go
till all is over. Of course, it requires no answer
for a while after my reception, I propose to betake
myself to some secular calling. I wrote thus in answer
(22:35):
to a very gracious letter of congratulations sent me by
Cardinal acton November twenty fifth, eighteen forty five. 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
(22:58):
wishes at a distance attad much more importance to my
step than really belong 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
(23:18):
been far more talk for good and bad than he deserves,
and about whose movement far more expectations 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.
(23:41):
So now much as I may wish to the contrary
and earnestly as I may labor, 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 those who pray for the
peace of Jerusalem. If I might ask of your Eminence
(24:03):
a favor, 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,
(24:26):
Doctor Wiseman, in whose vicar at Oxford lay, called me
to oscot and I went there with others. Afterwards he
sent me to Rome and finally placed me in Birmingham.
I wrote to a friend January twentieth, eighteen forty six.
You may think how lonely I am oblivisa populum tuum
(24:47):
et dominum patris tuhey has been in my years. 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 twenty third, eighteen
forty six, on the Saturday and Sunday before. I was
in my house at littlemore simply by myself, as I
(25:09):
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 mister Johnson's, at the Observatory.
Various friends came to see the last of me, Mister Copeland,
mister Church, mister Buckley, mister Patterson, and mister Lewis. Doctor
(25:30):
Pusey too came to take leave of me, and I
called on doctor Ogley, 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
(25:52):
Oxford life. Trinity had never been unkind to me. There
used to be much snap dragon growing on the walls
up sit my freshman rooms there, and I had for
years taken it as the emblem of my own perpetual residence,
even unto the death in my university. On the morning
of the twenty third, I left the observatory. I have
(26:14):
never seen Oxford since, accepting its spires as they are
seen from the railways. Footnote at length. I revisited Oxford
on February twenty sixth, eighteen seventy eight, after an absence
of just thirty two years. V Day additional note at
the end of the volume, end of footnote, end of
chapter four
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