It may easily be conceived how great a trial it is to me to write
the following history of myself; but I must not shrink from the task.
The words, “Secretum meum mihi,” keep ringing in my ears; but as men
draw towards their end, they care less for disclosures. Nor is it the
least part of my trial, to anticipate that my friends may, upon first
reading what I have written, consider much in it irrelevant to my
purpose; yet I cannot help thinking that, viewed as a whole, it will
effect what I wish it to do.
I was brought up from a child to take great delight in reading the
Bible; but I had no formed religious convictions till I was fifteen. Of
course I had perfect knowledge of my Catechism.
After I was grown up, I put on paper such recollections as I had of
my thoughts and feelings on religious subjects, at the time that I was
a child and a boy. Out of these I select two, which are at once the
most definite among them, and also have a bearing on my later
convictions.
In the paper to which I have referred, written either in the long
vacation of 1820, or in October, 1823, the following notices of my
school days were sufficiently prominent in my memory for me to consider
them worth recording:—“I used to wish the Arabian Tales were true: my
imagination ran on unknown influences, on magical powers, and talismans
... I thought life might be a dream, or I an Angel, and all this world
a deception, my fellow-angels by a playful device concealing themselves
from me, and deceiving me with the semblance of a material world.”
Again, “Reading in the Spring of 1816 a sentence from [Dr. Watts's]
'Remnants of Time,' entitled 'the Saints unknown to the world,' to the
effect, that 'there is nothing in their figure or countenance to
distinguish them,' etc. etc., I supposed he spoke of Angels who lived
in the world, as it were disguised.”
The other remark is this: “I was very superstitious, and for some
time previous to my conversion” [when I was fifteen] “used constantly
to cross myself on going into the dark.”
Of course I must have got this practice from some external source or
other; but I can make no sort of conjecture whence; and certainly no
one had ever spoken to me on the subject of the Catholic religion,
which I only knew by name. The French master was an émigré
priest, but he was simply made a butt, as French masters too commonly
were in that day, and spoke English very imperfectly. There was a
Catholic family in the village, old maiden ladies we used to think; but
I knew nothing but their name. I have of late years heard that there
were one or two Catholic boys in the school; but either we were
carefully kept from knowing this, or the knowledge of it made simply no
impression on our minds. My brother will bear witness how free the
school was from Catholic ideas.
I had once been into Warwick Street Chapel, with my father, who, I
believe, wanted to hear some piece of music; all that I bore away from
it was the recollection of a pulpit and a preacher and a boy swinging a
censer.
When I was at Littlemore, I was looking over old copy-books of my
school days, and I found among them my first Latin verse-book; and in
the first page of it, there was a device which almost took my breath
away with surprise. I have the book before me now, and have just been
showing it to others. I have written in the first page, in my
school-boy hand, “John H. Newman, February 11th, 1811, Verse Book;"
then follow my first verses. Between “Verse” and “Book” I have drawn
the figure of a solid cross upright, and next to it is, what may indeed
be meant for a necklace, but what I cannot make out to be anything else
than a set of beads suspended, with a little cross attached. At this
time I was not quite ten years old. I suppose I got the idea from some
romance, Mrs. Radcliffe's or Miss Porter's; or from some religious
picture; but the strange thing is, how, among the thousand objects
which meet a boy's eyes, these in particular should so have fixed
themselves in my mind, that I made them thus practically my own. I am
certain there was nothing in the churches I attended, or the prayer
books I read, to suggest them. It must be recollected that churches and
prayer books were not decorated in those days as I believe they are
now.
When I was fourteen, I read Paine's tracts against the Old
Testament, and found pleasure in thinking of the objections which were
contained in them. Also, I read some of Hume's essays; and perhaps that
on Miracles. So at least I gave my father to understand; but perhaps it
was a brag. Also, I recollect copying out some French verses, perhaps
Voltaire's, against the immortality of the soul, and saying to myself
something like “How dreadful, but how plausible!”
When I was fifteen (in the autumn of 1816) a great change of thought
took place in me. I fell under the influences of a definite creed, and
received into my intellect impressions of dogma, which, through God's
mercy, have never been effaced or obscured. Above and beyond the
conversations and sermons of the excellent man, long dead, who was the
human means of this beginning of divine faith in me, was the effect of
the books which he put into my hands, all of the school of Calvin. One
of the first books I read was a work of Romaine's; I neither recollect
the title nor the contents, except one doctrine, which of course I do
not include among those which I believe to have come from a divine
source, viz. the doctrine of final perseverance. I received it at once,
and believed that the inward conversion of which I was conscious (and
of which I still am more certain than that I have hands and feet) would
last into the next life, and that I was elected to eternal glory. I
have no consciousness that this belief had any tendency whatever to
lead me to be careless about pleasing God. I retained it till the age
of twenty-one, when it gradually faded away; but I believe that it had
some influence on my opinions, in the direction of those childish
imaginations which I have already mentioned, viz. in isolating me from
the objects which surrounded me, in confirming me in my mistrust of the
reality of material phenomena, and making me rest in the thought of two
and two only supreme and luminously self-evident beings, myself and my
Creator;—for while I considered myself predestined to salvation, I
thought others simply passed over, not predestined to eternal death. I
only thought of the mercy to myself.
The detestable doctrine last mentioned is simply denied and abjured,
unless my memory strangely deceives me, by the writer who made a deeper
impression on my mind than any other, and to whom (humanly speaking) I
almost owe my soul—Thomas Scott of Aston Sandford. I so admired and
delighted in his writings, that, when I was an undergraduate, I thought
of making a visit to his parsonage, in order to see a man whom I so
deeply revered. I hardly think I could have given up the idea of this
expedition, even after I had taken my degree; for the news of his death
in 1821 came upon me as a disappointment as well as a sorrow. I hung
upon the lips of Daniel Wilson, afterwards Bishop of Calcutta, as in
two sermons at St. John's Chapel he gave the history of Scott's life
and death. I had been possessed of his essays from a boy; his
commentary I bought when I was an undergraduate.
What, I suppose, will strike any reader of Scott's history and
writings, is his bold unworldliness and vigorous independence of mind.
He followed truth wherever it led him, beginning with Unitarianism, and
ending in a zealous faith in the Holy Trinity. It was he who first
planted deep in my mind that fundamental truth of religion. With the
assistance of Scott's essays, and the admirable work of Jones of
Nayland, I made a collection of Scripture texts in proof of the
doctrine, with remarks (I think) of my own upon them, before I was
sixteen; and a few months later I drew up a series of texts in support
of each verse of the Athanasian Creed. These papers I have still.
Besides his unworldliness, what I also admired in Scott was his
resolute opposition to Antinomianism, and the minutely practical
character of his writings. They show him to be a true Englishman, and I
deeply felt his influence; and for years I used almost as proverbs what
I considered to be the scope and issue of his doctrine, “Holiness
before peace,” and “Growth is the only evidence of life.”
Calvinists make a sharp separation between the elect and the world;
there is much in this that is parallel or cognate to the Catholic
doctrine; but they go on to say, as I understand them, very differently
from Catholicism,—that the converted and the unconverted can be
discriminated by man, that the justified are conscious of their state
of justification, and that the regenerate cannot fall away. Catholics
on the other hand shade and soften the awful antagonism between good
and evil, which is one of their dogmas, by holding that there are
different degrees of justification, that there is a great difference in
point of gravity between sin and sin, that there is the possibility and
the danger of falling away, and that there is no certain knowledge
given to any one that he is simply in a state of grace, and much less
that he is to persevere to the end:—of the Calvinistic tenets the only
one which took root in my mind was the fact of heaven and hell, divine
favour and divine wrath, of the justified and the unjustified. The
notion that the regenerate and the justified were one and the same, and
that the regenerate, as such, had the gift of perseverance, remained
with me not many years, as I have said already.
This main Catholic doctrine of the warfare between the city of God
and the powers of darkness was also deeply impressed upon my mind by a
work of a very opposite character, Law's “Serious Call.”
From this time I have given a full inward assent and belief to the
doctrine of eternal punishment, as delivered by our Lord Himself, in as
true a sense as I hold that of eternal happiness; though I have tried
in various ways to make that truth less terrible to the reason.
Now I come to two other works, which produced a deep impression on
me in the same autumn of 1816, when I was fifteen years old, each
contrary to each, and planting in me the seeds of an intellectual
inconsistency which disabled me for a long course of years. I read
Joseph Milner's Church History, and was nothing short of enamoured of
the long extracts from St. Augustine and the other Fathers which I
found there. I read them as being the religion of the primitive
Christians: but simultaneously with Milner I read Newton on the
Prophecies, and in consequence became most firmly convinced that the
Pope was the Antichrist predicted by Daniel, St. Paul, and St. John. My
imagination was stained by the effects of this doctrine up to the year
1843; it had been obliterated from my reason and judgment at an earlier
date; but the thought remained upon me as a sort of false conscience.
Hence came that conflict of mind, which so many have felt besides
myself;—leading some men to make a compromise between two ideas, so
inconsistent with each other—driving others to beat out the one idea
or the other from their minds—and ending in my own case, after many
years of intellectual unrest, in the gradual decay and extinction of
one of them—I do not say in its violent death, for why should I not
have murdered it sooner, if I murdered it at all?
I am obliged to mention, though I do it with great reluctance,
another deep imagination, which at this time, the autumn of 1816, took
possession of me—there can be no mistake about the fact;—viz. that it
was the will of God that I should lead a single life. This
anticipation, which has held its ground almost continuously ever
since—with the break of a month now and a month then, up to 1829, and,
after that date, without any break at all—was more or less connected,
in my mind, with the notion that my calling in life would require such
a sacrifice as celibacy involved; as, for instance, missionary work
among the heathen, to which I had a great drawing for some years. It
also strengthened my feeling of separation from the visible world, of
which I have spoken above.
In 1822 I came under very different influences from those to which I
had hitherto been subjected. At that time, Mr. Whately, as he was then,
afterwards Archbishop of Dublin, for the few months he remained in
Oxford, which he was leaving for good, showed great kindness to me. He
renewed it in 1825, when he became Principal of Alban Hall, making me
his vice-principal and tutor. Of Dr. Whately I will speak presently,
for from 1822 to 1825 I saw most of the present Provost of Oriel, Dr.
Hawkins, at that time Vicar of St. Mary's; and, when I took orders in
1824 and had a curacy at Oxford, then, during the long vacations, I was
especially thrown into his company. I can say with a full heart that I
love him, and have never ceased to love him; and I thus preface what
otherwise might sound rude, that in the course of the many years in
which we were together afterwards, he provoked me very much from time
to time, though I am perfectly certain that I have provoked him a great
deal more. Moreover, in me such provocation was unbecoming, both
because he was the head of my college, and because in the first years
that I knew him, he had been in many ways of great service to my mind.
He was the first who taught me to weigh my words, and to be cautious
in my statements. He led me to that mode of limiting and clearing my
sense in discussion and in controversy, and of distinguishing between
cognate ideas, and of obviating mistakes by anticipation, which to my
surprise has been since considered, even in quarters friendly to me, to
savour of the polemics of Rome. He is a man of most exact mind himself,
and he used to snub me severely, on reading, as he was kind enough to
do, the first sermons that I wrote, and other compositions which I was
engaged upon.
Then as to doctrine, he was the means of great additions to my
belief. As I have noticed elsewhere, he gave me the “Treatise on
Apostolical Preaching,” by Sumner, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury,
from which I learned to give up my remaining Calvinism, and to receive
the doctrine of Baptismal Regeneration. In many other ways too he was
of use to me, on subjects semi-religious and semi-scholastic.
It was Dr. Hawkins too who taught me to anticipate that, before many
years were over there would be an attack made upon the books and the
canon of Scripture. I was brought to the same belief by the
conversation of Mr. Blanco White, who also led me to have freer views
on the subject of inspiration than were usual in the Church of England
at the time.
There is one other principle, which I gained from Dr. Hawkins, more
directly bearing upon Catholicism, than any that I have mentioned; and
that is the doctrine of Tradition. When I was an undergraduate, I heard
him preach in the University pulpit his celebrated sermon on the
subject, and recollect how long it appeared to me, though he was at
that time a very striking preacher; but, when I read it and studied it
as his gift, it made a most serious impression upon me. He does not go
one step, I think, beyond the high Anglican doctrine, nay he does not
reach it; but he does his work thoroughly, and his view was original
with him, and his subject was a novel one at the time. He lays down a
proposition, self-evident as soon as stated, to those who have at all
examined the structure of Scripture, viz. that the sacred text was
never intended to teach doctrine, but only to prove it, and that, if we
would learn doctrine, we must have recourse to the formularies of the
Church; for instance to the Catechism, and to the Creeds. He considers,
that, after learning from them the doctrines of Christianity, the
inquirer must verify them by Scripture. This view, most true in its
outline, most fruitful in its consequences, opened upon me a large
field of thought. Dr. Whately held it too. One of its effects was to
strike at the root of the principle on which the Bible Society was set
up. I belonged to its Oxford Association; it became a matter of time
when I should withdraw my name from its subscription-list, though I did
not do so at once.
It is with pleasure that I pay here a tribute to the memory of the
Rev. William James, then Fellow of Oriel; who, about the year 1823,
taught me the doctrine of Apostolical Succession, in the course of a
walk, I think, round Christ Church meadow: I recollect being somewhat
impatient on the subject at the time.
It was at about this date, I suppose, that I read Bishop Butler's
Analogy; the study of which has been to so many, as it was to me, an
era in their religious opinions. Its inculcation of a visible Church,
the oracle of truth and a pattern of sanctity, of the duties of
external religion, and of the historical character of revelation, are
characteristics of this great work which strike the reader at once; for
myself, if I may attempt to determine what I most gained from it, it
lay in two points, which I shall have an opportunity of dwelling on in
the sequel; they are the underlying principles of a great portion of my
teaching. First, the very idea of an analogy between the separate works
of God leads to the conclusion that the system which is of less
importance is economically or sacramentally connected with the more
momentous system, and of this conclusion the theory, to which I was
inclined as a boy, viz. the unreality of material phenomena, is an
ultimate resolution. At this time I did not make the distinction
between matter itself and its phenomena, which is so necessary and so
obvious in discussing the subject. Secondly, Butler's doctrine that
probability is the guide of life, led me, at least under the teaching
to which a few years later I was introduced, to the question of the
logical cogency of faith, on which I have written so much. Thus to
Butler I trace those two principles of my teaching, which have led to a
charge against me both of fancifulness and of scepticism.
And now as to Dr. Whately. I owe him a great deal. He was a man of
generous and warm heart. He was particularly loyal to his friends, and
to use the common phrase, “all his geese were swans.” While I was still
awkward and timid in 1822, he took me by the hand, and acted the part
to me of a gentle and encouraging instructor. He, emphatically, opened
my mind, and taught me to think and to use my reason. After being first
noticed by him in 1822, I became very intimate with him in 1825, when I
was his Vice-Principal at Alban Hall. I gave up that office in 1826,
when I became tutor of my College, and his hold upon me gradually
relaxed. He had done his work towards me or nearly so, when he had
taught me to see with my own eyes and to walk with my own feet. Not
that I had not a good deal to learn from others still, but I influenced
them as well as they me, and co-operated rather than merely concurred
with them. As to Dr. Whately, his mind was too different from mine for
us to remain long on one line. I recollect how dissatisfied he was with
an article of mine in the London Review, which Blanco White,
good-humouredly, only called platonic. When I was diverging from him
(which he did not like), I thought of dedicating my first book to him,
in words to the effect that he had not only taught me to think, but to
think for myself. He left Oxford in 1831; after that, as far as I can
recollect, I never saw him but twice—when he visited the University;
once in the street, once in a room. From the time that he left, I have
always felt a real affection for what I must call his memory; for
thenceforward he made himself dead to me. My reason told me that it was
impossible that we could have got on together longer; yet I loved him
too much to bid him farewell without pain. After a few years had
passed, I began to believe that his influence on me in a higher respect
than intellectual advance (I will not say through his fault) had not
been satisfactory. I believe that he has inserted sharp things in his
later works about me. They have never come in my way, and I have not
thought it necessary to seek out what would pain me so much in the
reading.
What he did for me in point of religious opinion, was first to teach
me the existence of the Church, as a substantive body or corporation;
next to fix in me those anti-Erastian views of Church polity, which
were one of the most prominent features of the Tractarian movement. On
this point, and, as far as I know, on this point alone, he and Hurrell
Froude intimately sympathised, though Froude's development of opinion
here was of a later date. In the year 1826, in the course of a walk he
said much to me about a work then just published, called “Letters on
the Church by an Episcopalian.” He said that it would make my blood
boil. It was certainly a most powerful composition. One of our common
friends told me, that, after reading it, he could not keep still, but
went on walking up and down his room. It was ascribed at once to
Whately; I gave eager expression to the contrary opinion; but I found
the belief of Oxford in the affirmative to be too strong for me;
rightly or wrongly I yielded to the general voice; and I have never
heard, then or since, of any disclaimer of authorship on the part of
Dr. Whately.
The main positions of this able essay are these; first that Church
and State should be independent of each other:—he speaks of the duty
of protesting “against the profanation of Christ's kingdom, by that
double usurpation, the interference of the Church in temporals, of
the State in spirituals,” (p. 191); and, secondly, that the Church may
justly and by right retain its property, though separated from the
State. “The clergy,” he says p. 133, “though they ought not to be the
hired servants of the Civil Magistrate, may justly retain their
revenues; and the State, though it has no right of interference in
spiritual concerns, not only is justly entitled to support from the
ministers of religion, and from all other Christians, but would, under
the system I am recommending, obtain it much more effectually.” The
author of this work, whoever he may be, argues out both these points
with great force and ingenuity, and with a thorough-going vehemence,
which perhaps we may refer to the circumstance, that he wrote, not
in propriâ personâ, but in the professed character of a Scotch
Episcopalian. His work had a gradual, but a deep effect on my mind.
I am not aware of any other religious opinion which I owe to Dr.
Whately. For his special theological tenets I had no sympathy. In the
next year, 1827, he told me he considered that I was Arianising. The
case was this: though at that time I had not read Bishop Bull's
Defensio nor the Fathers, I was just then very strong for that
ante-Nicene view of the Trinitarian doctrine, which some writers, both
Catholic and non-Catholic, have accused of wearing a sort of Arian
exterior. This is the meaning of a passage in Froude's Remains, in
which he seems to accuse me of speaking against the Athanasian Creed. I
had contrasted the two aspects of the Trinitarian doctrine, which are
respectively presented by the Athanasian Creed and the Nicene. My
criticisms were to the effect that some of the verses of the former
Creed were unnecessarily scientific. This is a specimen of a certain
disdain for antiquity which had been growing on me now for several
years. It showed itself in some flippant language against the Fathers
in the Encyclopædia Metropolitana, about whom I knew little at the
time, except what I had learnt as a boy from Joseph Milner. In writing
on the Scripture Miracles in 1825-6, I had read Middleton on the
Miracles of the early Church, and had imbibed a portion of his spirit.
The truth is, I was beginning to prefer intellectual excellence to
moral; I was drifting in the direction of liberalism. I was rudely
awakened from my dream at the end of 1827 by two great blows—illness
and bereavement.
In the beginning of 1829, came the formal break between Dr. Whately
and me; Mr. Peel's attempted re-election was the occasion of it. I
think in 1828 or 1827 I had voted in the minority, when the petition to
Parliament against the Catholic claims was brought into Convocation. I
did so mainly on the views suggested to me by the theory of the Letters
of an Episcopalian. Also I disliked the bigoted “two bottle orthodox,”
as they were invidiously called. I took part against Mr. Peel, on a
simple academical, not at all an ecclesiastical or a political ground;
and this I professed at the time. I considered that Mr. Peel had taken
the University by surprise, that he had no right to call upon us to
turn round on a sudden, and to expose ourselves to the imputation of
time-serving, and that a great University ought not to be bullied even
by a great Duke of Wellington. Also by this time I was under the
influence of Keble and Froude; who, in addition to the reasons I have
given, disliked the Duke's change of policy as dictated by liberalism.
Whately was considerably annoyed at me, and he took a humourous
revenge, of which he had given me due notice beforehand. As head of a
house, he had duties of hospitality to men of all parties; he asked a
set of the least intellectual men in Oxford to dinner, and men most
fond of port; he made me one of the party; placed me between Provost
this and Principal that, and then asked me if I was proud of my
friends. However, he had a serious meaning in his act; he saw, more
clearly than I could do, that I was separating from his own friends for
good and all.
Dr. Whately attributed my leaving his clientela to a wish on
my part to be the head of a party myself. I do not think that it was
deserved. My habitual feeling then and since has been, that it was not
I who sought friends, but friends who sought me. Never man had kinder
or more indulgent friends than I have had, but I expressed my own
feeling as to the mode in which I gained them, in this very year 1829,
in the course of a copy of verses. Speaking of my blessings, I said,
“Blessings of friends, which to my door, unasked, unhoped, have
come.” They have come, they have gone; they came to my great joy, they
went to my great grief. He who gave, took away. Dr. Whately's
impression about me, however, admits of this explanation:—
During the first years of my residence at Oriel, though proud of my
college, I was not at home there. I was very much alone, and I used
often to take my daily walk by myself. I recollect once meeting Dr.
Copleston, then provost, with one of the fellows. He turned round, and
with the kind courteousness which sat so well on him, made me a bow and
said, “Nunquam minus solus, quàm cùm solus.” At that time indeed (from
1823) I had the intimacy of my dear and true friend Dr. Pusey, and
could not fail to admire and revere a soul so devoted to the cause of
religion, so full of good works, so faithful in his affections; but he
left residence when I was getting to know him well. As to Dr. Whately
himself, he was too much my superior to allow of my being at my ease
with him; and to no one in Oxford at this time did I open my heart
fully and familiarly. But things changed in 1826. At that time I became
one of the tutors of my college, and this gave me position; besides, I
had written one or two essays which had been well received. I began to
be known. I preached my first University Sermon. Next year I was one of
the Public Examiners for the B.A. degree. It was to me like the feeling
of spring weather after winter; and, if I may so speak, I came out of
my shell; I remained out of it till 1841.
The two persons who knew me best at that time are still alive,
beneficed clergymen, no longer my friends. They could tell better than
any one else what I was in those years. From this time my tongue was,
as it were, loosened, and I spoke spontaneously and without effort. A
shrewd man, who knew me at this time, said, “Here is a man who, when he
is silent, will never begin to speak; and when he once begins to speak,
will never stop.” It was at this time that I began to have influence,
which steadily increased for a course of years. I gained upon my
pupils, and was in particular intimate and affectionate with two of our
probationer fellows, Robert I. Wilberforce (afterwards archdeacon) and
Richard Hurrell Froude. Whately then, an acute man, perhaps saw around
me the signs of an incipient party of which I was not conscious myself.
And thus we discern the first elements of that movement afterwards
called Tractarian.
The true and primary author of it, however, as is usual with great
motive-powers, was out of sight. Having carried off as a mere boy the
highest honours of the University, he had turned from the admiration
which haunted his steps, and sought for a better and holier
satisfaction in pastoral work in the country. Need I say that I am
speaking of John Keble? The first time that I was in a room with him
was on occasion of my election to a fellowship at Oriel, when I was
sent for into the Tower, to shake hands with the provost and fellows.
How is that hour fixed in my memory after the changes of forty-two
years, forty-two this very day on which I write! I have lately had a
letter in my hands, which I sent at the time to my great friend, John
Bowden, with whom I passed almost exclusively my Undergraduate years.
“I had to hasten to the tower,” I say to him, “to receive the
congratulations of all the fellows. I bore it till Keble took my hand,
and then felt so abashed and unworthy of the honour done me, that I
seemed desirous of quite sinking into the ground.” His had been the
first name which I had heard spoken of, with reverence rather than
admiration, when I came up to Oxford. When one day I was walking in
High Street with my dear earliest friend just mentioned, with what
eagerness did he cry out, “There's Keble!” and with what awe did I look
at him! Then at another time I heard a master of arts of my college
give an account how he had just then had occasion to introduce himself
on some business to Keble, and how gentle, courteous, and unaffected
Keble had been, so as almost to put him out of countenance. Then too it
was reported, truly or falsely, how a rising man of brilliant
reputation, the present Dean of St. Paul's, Dr. Milman, admired and
loved him, adding, that somehow he was unlike any one else. However, at
the time when I was elected Fellow of Oriel he was not in residence,
and he was shy of me for years in consequence of the marks which I bore
upon me of the evangelical and liberal schools. At least so I have ever
thought. Hurrell Froude brought us together about 1828: it is one of
the sayings preserved in his “Remains,”—“Do you know the story of the
murderer who had done one good thing in his life? Well; if I was ever
asked what good deed I had ever done, I should say that I had brought
Keble and Newman to understand each other.”
The Christian Year made its appearance in 1827. It is not necessary,
and scarcely becoming, to praise a book which has already become one of
the classics of the language. When the general tone of religious
literature was so nerveless and impotent, as it was at that time, Keble
struck an original note and woke up in the hearts of thousands a new
music, the music of a school, long unknown in England. Nor can I
pretend to analyse, in my own instance, the effect of religious
teaching so deep, so pure, so beautiful. I have never till now tried to
do so; yet I think I am not wrong in saying, that the two main
intellectual truths which it brought home to me, were the same two,
which I had learned from Butler, though recast in the creative mind of
my new master. The first of these was what may be called, in a large
sense of the word, the sacramental system; that is, the doctrine that
material phenomena are both the types and the instruments of real
things unseen,—a doctrine, which embraces, not only what Anglicans, as
well as Catholics, believe about sacraments properly so called; but
also the article of “the Communion of Saints” in its fulness; and
likewise the mysteries of the faith. The connection of this philosophy
of religion with what is sometimes called “Berkeleyism” has been
mentioned above; I knew little of Berkeley at this time except by name;
nor have I ever studied him.
On the second intellectual principle which I gained from Mr. Keble,
I could say a great deal; if this were the place for it. It runs
through very much that I have written, and has gained for me many hard
names. Butler teaches us that probability is the guide of life. The
danger of this doctrine, in the case of many minds, is, its tendency to
destroy in them absolute certainty, leading them to consider every
conclusion as doubtful, and resolving truth into an opinion, which it
is safe to obey or to profess, but not possible to embrace with full
internal assent. If this were to be allowed, then the celebrated
saying, “O God, if there be a God, save my soul, if I have a soul!”
would be the highest measure of devotion:—but who can really pray to a
being, about whose existence he is seriously in doubt?
I considered that Mr. Keble met this difficulty by ascribing the
firmness of assent which we give to religious doctrine, not to the
probabilities which introduced it, but to the living power of faith and
love which accepted it. In matters of religion, he seemed to say, it is
not merely probability which makes us intellectually certain, but
probability as it is put to account by faith and love. It is faith and
love which give to probability a force which it has not in itself.
Faith and love are directed towards an object; in the vision of that
object they live; it is that object, received in faith and love, which
renders it reasonable to take probability as sufficient for internal
conviction. Thus the argument about probability, in the matter of
religion, became an argument from personality, which in fact is one
form of the argument from authority.
In illustration, Mr. Keble used to quote the words of the psalm: “I
will guide thee with mine eye. Be ye not like to horse and mule,
which have no understanding; whose mouths must be held with bit and
bridle, lest they fall upon thee.” This is the very difference, he used
to say, between slaves, and friends or children. Friends do not ask for
literal commands; but, from their knowledge of the speaker, they
understand his half-words, and from love of him they anticipate his
wishes. Hence it is, that in his poem for St. Bartholomew's Day, he
speaks of the “Eye of God's word;” and in the note quotes Mr. Miller,
of Worcester College, who remarks, in his Bampton Lectures, on the
special power of Scripture, as having “this eye, like that of a
portrait, uniformly fixed upon us, turn where we will.” The view thus
suggested by Mr. Keble, is brought forward in one of the earliest of
the “Tracts for the Times.” In No. 8 I say, “The Gospel is a Law of
Liberty. We are treated as sons, not as servants; not subjected to a
code of formal commandments, but addressed as those who love God, and
wish to please Him.”
I did not at all dispute this view of the matter, for I made use of
it myself; but I was dissatisfied, because it did not go to the root of
the difficulty. It was beautiful and religious, but it did not even
profess to be logical; and accordingly I tried to complete it by
considerations of my own, which are implied in my University sermons,
Essay on Ecclesiastical Miracles, and Essay on Development of Doctrine.
My argument is in outline as follows: that that absolute certitude
which we were able to possess, whether as to the truths of natural
theology, or as to the fact of a revelation, was the result of an
assemblage of concurring and converging probabilities, and that,
both according to the constitution of the human mind and the will of
its Maker; that certitude was a habit of mind, that certainty was a
quality of propositions; that probabilities which did not reach to
logical certainty, might create a mental certitude; that the certitude
thus created might equal in measure and strength the certitude which
was created by the strictest scientific demonstration; and that to have
such certitude might in given cases and to given individuals be a plain
duty, though not to others in other circumstances:—
Moreover, that as there were probabilities which sufficed to create
certitude, so there were other probabilities which were legitimately
adapted to create opinion; that it might be quite as much a matter of
duty in given cases and to given persons to have about a fact an
opinion of a definite strength and consistency, as in the case of
greater or of more numerous probabilities it was a duty to have a
certitude; that accordingly we were bound to be more or less sure, on a
sort of (as it were) graduated scale of assent, viz. according as the
probabilities attaching to a professed fact were brought home to us,
and, as the case might be, to entertain about it a pious belief, or a
pious opinion, or a religious conjecture, or at least, a tolerance of
such belief, or opinion, or conjecture in others; that on the other
hand, as it was a duty to have a belief, of more or less strong
texture, in given cases, so in other cases it was a duty not to
believe, not to opine, not to conjecture, not even to tolerate the
notion that a professed fact was true, inasmuch as it would be
credulity or superstition, or some other moral fault, to do so. This
was the region of private judgment in religion; that is, of a private
judgment, not formed arbitrarily and according to one's fancy or
liking, but conscientiously, and under a sense of duty.
Considerations such as these throw a new light on the subject of
Miracles, and they seem to have led me to re-consider the view which I
took of them in my Essay in 1825-6. I do not know what was the date of
this change in me, nor of the train of ideas on which it was founded.
That there had been already great miracles, as those of Scripture, as
the Resurrection, was a fact establishing the principle that the laws
of nature had sometimes been suspended by their Divine Author; and
since what had happened once might happen again, a certain probability,
at least no kind of improbability, was attached to the idea, taken in
itself, of miraculous intervention in later times, and miraculous
accounts were to be regarded in connection with the verisimilitude,
scope, instrument, character, testimony, and circumstances, with which
they presented themselves to us; and, according to the final result of
those various considerations, it was our duty to be sure, or to
believe, or to opine, or to surmise, or to tolerate, or to reject, or
to denounce. The main difference between my essay on Miracles in 1826
and my essay in 1842 is this: that in 1826 I considered that miracles
were sharply divided into two classes, those which were to be received,
and those which were to be rejected; whereas in 1842 I saw that they
were to be regarded according to their greater or less probability,
which was in some cases sufficient to create certitude about them, in
other cases only belief or opinion.
Moreover, the argument from analogy, on which this view of the
question was founded, suggested to me something besides, in
recommendation of the ecclesiastical miracles. It fastened itself upon
the theory of church history which I had learned as a boy from Joseph
Milner. It is Milner's doctrine, that upon the visible Church come down
from above, from time to time, large and temporary Effusions of
divine grace. This is the leading idea of his work. He begins by
speaking of the Day of Pentecost, as marking “the first of those
Effusions of the Spirit of God, which from age to age have visited
the earth since the coming of Christ” (vol. i. p. 3). In a note he adds
that “in the term 'Effusion' there is not here included the idea of the
miraculous or extraordinary operations of the Spirit of God;” but still
it was natural for me, admitting Milner's general theory, and applying
to it the principle of analogy, not to stop short at his abrupt ipse
dixit, but boldly to pass forward to the conclusion, on other
grounds plausible, that, as miracles accompanied the first effusion of
grace, so they might accompany the later. It is surely a natural and on
the whole, a true anticipation (though of course there are exceptions
in particular cases), that gifts and graces go together; now, according
to the ancient Catholic doctrine, the gift of miracles was viewed as
the attendant and shadow of transcendent sanctity: and moreover, as
such sanctity was not of every day's occurrence, nay further, as one
period of Church history differed widely from another, and, as Joseph
Milner would say, there have been generations or centuries of
degeneracy or disorder, and times of revival, and as one region might
be in the mid-day of religious fervour, and another in twilight or
gloom, there was no force in the popular argument, that, because we did
not see miracles with our own eyes, miracles had not happened in former
times, or were not now at this very time taking place in distant
places:—but I must not dwell longer on a subject, to which in a few
words it is impossible to do justice.
Hurrell Froude was a pupil of Keble's, formed by him, and in turn
reacting upon him. I knew him first in 1826, and was in the closest and
most affectionate friendship with him from about 1829 till his death in
1836. He was a man of the highest gifts—so truly many-sided, that it
would be presumptuous in me to attempt to describe him, except under
those aspects, in which he came before me. Nor have I here to speak of
the gentleness and tenderness of nature, the playfulness, the free
elastic force and graceful versatility of mind, and the patient winning
considerateness in discussion, which endeared him to those to whom he
opened his heart; for I am all along engaged upon matters of belief and
opinion, and am introducing others into my narrative, not for their own
sake, or because I love and have loved them, so much as because, and so
far as, they have influenced my theological views. In this respect
then, I speak of Hurrell Froude—in his intellectual aspect—as a man
of high genius, brimful and overflowing with ideas and views, in him
original, which were too many and strong even for his bodily strength,
and which crowded and jostled against each other in their effort after
distinct shape and expression. And he had an intellect as critical and
logical as it was speculative and bold. Dying prematurely, as he did,
and in the conflict and transition-state of opinion, his religious
views never reached their ultimate conclusion, by the very reason of
their multitude and their depth. His opinions arrested and influenced
me, even when they did not gain my assent. He professed openly his
admiration of the Church of Rome, and his hatred of the reformers. He
delighted in the notion of an hierarchical system, or sacerdotal power
and of full ecclesiastical liberty. He felt scorn of the maxim, “The
Bible and the Bible only is the religion of Protestants;” and he
gloried in accepting Tradition as a main instrument of religious
teaching. He had a high severe idea of the intrinsic excellence of
virginity; and he considered the Blessed Virgin its great pattern. He
delighted in thinking of the saints; he had a keen appreciation of the
idea of sanctity, its possibility and its heights; and he was more than
inclined to believe a large amount of miraculous interference as
occurring in the early and middle ages. He embraced the principle of
penance and mortification. He had a deep devotion to the Real Presence,
in which he had a firm faith. He was powerfully drawn to the medieval
church, but not to the primitive.
He had a keen insight into abstract truth; but he was an Englishman
to the backbone in his severe adherence to the real and the concrete.
He had a most classical taste, and a genius for philosophy and art; and
he was fond of historical inquiry, and the politics of religion. He had
no turn for theology as such. He had no appreciation of the writings of
the Fathers, of the detail or development of doctrine, of the definite
traditions of the Church viewed in their matter, of the teaching of the
ecumenical councils, or of the controversies out of which they arose.
He took an eager, courageous view of things on the whole. I should say
that his power of entering into the minds of others did not equal his
other gifts; he could not believe, for instance, that I really held the
Roman Church to be Antichristian. On many points he would not believe
but that I agreed with him, when I did not. He seemed not to understand
my difficulties. His were of a different kind, the contrariety between
theory and fact. He was a high Tory of the cavalier stamp, and was
disgusted with the Toryism of the opponents of the Reform Bill. He was
smitten with the love of the theocratic church; he went abroad and was
shocked by the degeneracy which he thought he saw in the Catholics of
Italy.
It is difficult to enumerate the precise additions to my theological
creed which I derived from a friend to whom I owe so much. He made me
look with admiration towards the Church of Rome, and in the same degree
to dislike the Reformation. He fixed deep in me the idea of devotion to
the Blessed Virgin, and he led me gradually to believe in the Real
Presence.
There is one remaining source of my opinions to be mentioned, and
that far from the least important. In proportion as I moved out of the
shadow of liberalism which had hung over my course, my early devotion
towards the fathers returned; and in the long vacation of 1828 I set
about to read them chronologically, beginning with St. Ignatius and St.
Justin. About 1830 a proposal was made to me by Mr. Hugh Rose, who with
Mr. Lyall (afterwards Dean of Canterbury) was providing writers for a
theological library, to furnish them with a history of the principal
councils. I accepted it, and at once set to work on the Council of
Nicæa. It was launching myself on an ocean with currents innumerable;
and I was drifted back first to the ante-Nicene history, and then to
the Church of Alexandria. The work at last appeared under the title of
“The Arians of the Fourth Century;” and of its 422 pages, the first 117
consisted of introductory matter, and the Council of Nicæa did not
appear till the 254th, and then occupied at most twenty pages.
I do not know when I first learnt to consider that antiquity was the
true exponent of the doctrines of Christianity and the basis of the
Church of England; but I take it for granted that Bishop Bull, whose
works at this time I read, was my chief introduction to this principle.
The course of reading which I pursued in the composition of my work was
directly adapted to develop it in my mind. What principally attracted
me in the ante-Nicene period was the great Church of Alexandria, the
historical centre of teaching in those times. Of Rome for some
centuries comparatively little is known. The battle of Arianism was
first fought in Alexandria; Athanasius, the champion of the truth, was
Bishop of Alexandria; and in his writings he refers to the great
religious names of an earlier date, to Origen, Dionysius, and others
who were the glory of its see, or of its school. The broad philosophy
of Clement and Origen carried me away; the philosophy, not the
theological doctrine; and I have drawn out some features of it in my
volume, with the zeal and freshness, but with the partiality of a
neophyte. Some portions of their teaching, magnificent in themselves,
came like music to my inward ear, as if the response to ideas, which,
with little external to encourage them, I had cherished so long. These
were based on the mystical or sacramental principle, and spoke of the
various economies or dispensations of the eternal. I understood them to
mean that the exterior world, physical and historical, was but the
outward manifestation of realities greater than itself. Nature was a
parable:[1] Scripture was an allegory: pagan literature, philosophy,
and mythology, properly understood, were but a preparation for the
Gospel. The Greek poets and sages were in a certain sense prophets; for
“thoughts beyond their thought to those high bards were given.” There
had been a divine dispensation granted to the Jews; there had been in
some sense a dispensation carried on in favour of the Gentiles. He who
had taken the seed of Jacob for His elect people, had not therefore
cast the rest of mankind out of His sight. In the fulness of time both
Judaism and Paganism had come to nought; the outward framework, which
concealed yet suggested the living truth, had never been intended to
last, and it was dissolving under the beams of the sun of justice
behind it and through it. The process of change had been slow; it had
been done not rashly, but by rule and measure, “at sundry times and in
divers manners,” first one disclosure and then another, till the whole
was brought into full manifestation. And thus room was made for the
anticipation of further and deeper disclosures, of truths still under
the veil of the letter, and in their season to be revealed. The visible
world still remains without its divine interpretation; Holy Church in
her sacraments and her hierarchical appointments, will remain even to
the end of the world, only a symbol of those heavenly facts which fill
eternity. Her mysteries are but the expressions in human language of
truths to which the human mind is unequal. It is evident how much there
was in all this in correspondence with the thoughts which had attracted
me when I was young, and with the doctrine which I have already
connected with the Analogy and the Christian Year.
I suppose it was to the Alexandrian school and to the early church
that I owe in particular what I definitely held about the angels. I
viewed them, not only as the ministers employed by the Creator in the
Jewish and Christian dispensations, as we find on the face of
Scripture, but as carrying on, as Scripture also implies, the economy
of the visible world. I considered them as the real causes of motion,
light, and life, and of those elementary principles of the physical
universe, which, when offered in their developments to our senses,
suggest to us the notion of cause and effect, and of what are called
the laws of nature. I have drawn out this doctrine in my sermon for
Michaelmas day, written not later than 1834. I say of the angels,
“Every breath of air and ray of light and heat, every beautiful
prospect, is, as it were, the skirts of their garments, the waving of
the robes of those whose faces see God.” Again, I ask what would be the
thoughts of a man who, “when examining a flower, or a herb, or a
pebble, or a ray of light, which he treats as something so beneath him
in the scale of existence, suddenly discovered that he was in the
presence of some powerful being who was hidden behind the visible
things he was inspecting, who, though concealing his wise hand, was
giving them their beauty, grace, and perfection, as being God's
instrument for the purpose, nay, whose robe and ornaments those objects
were, which he was so eager to analyse?” and I therefore remark that
“we may say with grateful and simple hearts with the Three Holy
Children, 'O all ye works of the Lord, etc., etc., bless ye the Lord,
praise Him, and magnify Him for ever.'”
Also, besides the hosts of evil spirits, I considered there was a
middle race, [greek: daimonia], neither in heaven, nor in hell;
partially fallen, capricious, wayward; noble or crafty, benevolent or
malicious, as the case might be. They gave a sort of inspiration or
intelligence to races, nations, and classes of men. Hence the action of
bodies politic and associations, which is so different often from that
of the individuals who compose them. Hence the character and the
instinct of states and governments, of religious communities and
communions. I thought they were inhabited by unseen intelligences. My
preference of the Personal to the Abstract would naturally lead me to
this view. I thought it countenanced by the mention of “the Prince of
Persia” in the Prophet Daniel; and I think I considered that it was of
such intermediate beings that the Apocalypse spoke, when it introduced
“the Angels of the Seven Churches.”
In 1837 I made a further development of this doctrine. I said to my
great friend, Samuel Francis Wood, in a letter which came into my hands
on his death, “I have an idea. The mass of the Fathers (Justin,
Athenagoras, Irenæus, Clement, Tertullian, Origen, Lactantius,
Sulpicius, Ambrose, Nazianzen), hold that, though Satan fell from the
beginning, the Angels fell before the deluge, falling in love with the
daughters of men. This has lately come across me as a remarkable
solution of a notion which I cannot help holding. Daniel speaks as if
each nation had its guardian Angel. I cannot but think that there are
beings with a great deal of good in them, yet with great defects, who
are the animating principles of certain institutions, etc., etc....
Take England, with many high virtues, and yet a low Catholicism. It
seems to me that John Bull is a Spirit neither of heaven nor hell....
Has not the Christian Church, in its parts, surrendered itself to one
or other of these simulations of the truth? ...How are we to avoid
Scylla and Charybdis and go straight on to the very image of Christ?”
etc., etc.
I am aware that what I have been saying will, with many men, be
doing credit to my imagination at the expense of my
judgment—“Hippoclides doesn't care;” I am not setting myself up as a
pattern of good sense or of anything else: I am but vindicating myself
from the charge of dishonesty.—There is indeed another view of the
economy brought out, in the course of the same dissertation on the
subject, in my History of the Arians, which has afforded matter for the
latter imputation; but I reserve it for the concluding portion of my
reply.
While I was engaged in writing my work upon the Arians, great events
were happening at home and abroad, which brought out into form and
passionate expression the various beliefs which had so gradually been
winning their way into my mind. Shortly before, there had been a
revolution in France; the Bourbons had been dismissed: and I believed
that it was unchristian for nations to cast off their governors, and,
much more, sovereigns who had the divine right of inheritance. Again,
the great Reform agitation was going on around me as I wrote. The Whigs
had come into power; Lord Grey had told the Bishops to set their house
in order, and some of the prelates had been insulted and threatened in
the streets of London. The vital question was how were we to keep the
Church from being liberalised? there was such apathy on the subject in
some quarters, such imbecile alarm in others; the true principles of
Churchmanship seemed so radically decayed, and there was such
distraction in the councils of the clergy. The Bishop of London of the
day, an active and open-hearted man, had been for years engaged in
diluting the high orthodoxy of the Church by the introduction of the
Evangelical body into places of influence and trust. He had deeply
offended men who agreed with myself, by an off-hand saying (as it was
reported) to the effect that belief in the apostolical succession had
gone out with the non-jurors. “We can count you,” he said to some of
the gravest and most venerated persons of the old school. And the
Evangelical party itself seemed, with their late successes, to have
lost that simplicity and unworldliness which I admired so much in
Milner and Scott. It was not that I did not venerate such men as the
then Bishop of Lichfield, and others of similar sentiments, who were
not yet promoted out of the ranks of the clergy, but I thought little
of them as a class. I thought they played into the hands of the
Liberals. With the Establishment thus divided and threatened, thus
ignorant of its true strength, I compared that fresh vigorous power of
which I was reading in the first centuries. In her triumphant zeal on
behalf of that Primeval Mystery, to which I had had so great a devotion
from my youth, I recognised the movement of my Spiritual Mother.
“Incessu patuit Dea.” The self-conquest of her ascetics, the patience
of her martyrs, the irresistible determination of her bishops, the
joyous swing of her advance, both exalted and abashed me. I said to
myself, “Look on this picture and on that;” I felt affection for my own
Church, but not tenderness; I felt dismay at her prospects, anger and
scorn at her do-nothing perplexity. I thought that if Liberalism once
got a footing within her, it was sure of the victory in the event. I
saw that Reformation principles were powerless to rescue her. As to
leaving her, the thought never crossed my imagination; still I ever
kept before me that there was something greater than the Established
Church, and that that was the Church Catholic and Apostolic, set up
from the beginning, of which she was but the local presence and organ.
She was nothing, unless she was this. She must be dealt with strongly,
or she would be lost. There was need of a second Reformation.
At this time I was disengaged from college duties, and my health had
suffered from the labour involved in the composition of my volume. It
was ready for the press in July, 1832, though not published till the
end of 1833. I was easily persuaded to join Hurrell Froude and his
Father, who were going to the south of Europe for the health of the
former.
We set out in December, 1832. It was during this expedition that my
Verses which are in the Lyra Apostolica were written;—a few indeed
before it, but not more than one or two of them after it. Exchanging,
as I was, definite tutorial labours, and the literary quiet and
pleasant friendships of the last six years, for foreign countries and
an unknown future, I naturally was led to think that some inward
changes, as well as some larger course of action, was coming upon me.
At Whitchurch, while waiting for the down mail to Falmouth, I wrote the
verses about my Guardian Angel, which begin with these words: “Are
these the tracks of some unearthly Friend?” and go on to speak of “the
vision” which haunted me:—that vision is more or less brought out in
the whole series of these compositions.
I went to various coasts of the Mediterranean, parted with my
friends at Rome; went down for the second time to Sicily, at the end of
April, and got back to England by Palermo in the early part of July.
The strangeness of foreign life threw me back into myself; I found
pleasure in historical sites and beautiful scenes, not in men and
manners. We kept clear of Catholics throughout our tour. I had a
conversation with the Dean of Malta, a most pleasant man, lately dead;
but it was about the Fathers, and the Library of the great church. I
knew the Abbate Santini, at Rome, who did no more than copy for me the
Gregorian tones. Froude and I made two calls upon Monsignore (now
Cardinal) Wiseman at the Collegio Inglese, shortly before we left Rome.
I do not recollect being in a room with any other ecclesiastics, except
a Priest at Castro-Giovanni in Sicily, who called on me when I was ill,
and with whom I wished to hold a controversy. As to Church Services, we
attended the Tenebræ, at the Sestine, for the sake of the Miserere; and
that was all. My general feeling was, “All, save the spirit of man, is
divine.” I saw nothing but what was external; of the hidden life of
Catholics I knew nothing. I was still more driven back into myself, and
felt my isolation. England was in my thoughts solely, and the news from
England came rarely and imperfectly. The Bill for the Suppression of
the Irish Sees was in progress, and filled my mind. I had fierce
thoughts against the Liberals.
It was the success of the Liberal cause which fretted me inwardly. I
became fierce against its instruments and its manifestations. A French
vessel was at Algiers; I would not even look at the tricolour. On my
return, though forced to stop a day at Paris, I kept indoors the whole
time, and all that I saw of that beautiful city, was what I saw from
the Diligence. The Bishop of London had already sounded me as to my
filling one of the Whitehall preacherships, which he had just then put
on a new footing; but I was indignant at the line which he was taking,
and from my steamer I had sent home a letter declining the appointment
by anticipation, should it be offered to me. At this time I was
specially annoyed with Dr. Arnold, though it did not last into later
years. Some one, I think, asked in conversation at Rome, whether a
certain interpretation of Scripture was Christian? it was answered that
Dr. Arnold took it; I interposed, “But is he a Christian?” The
subject went out of my head at once; when afterwards I was taxed with
it I could say no more in explanation, than that I thought I must have
been alluding to some free views of Dr. Arnold about the Old
Testament:—I thought I must have meant, “But who is to answer for
Arnold?” It was at Rome too that we began the Lyra Apostolica which
appeared monthly in the British Magazine. The motto shows the
feeling of both Froude and myself at the time: we borrowed from M.
Bunsen a Homer, and Froude chose the words in which Achilles, on
returning to the battle, says, “You shall know the difference, now that
I am back again.”
Especially when I was left by myself, the thought came upon me that
deliverance is wrought, not by the many but by the few, not by bodies
but by persons. Now it was, I think, that I repeated to myself the
words, which had ever been dear to me from my school days, “Exoriare
aliquis!”—now too, that Southey's beautiful poem of Thalaba, for which
I had an immense liking, came forcibly to my mind. I began to think
that I had a mission. There are sentences of my letters to my friends
to this effect, if they are not destroyed. When we took leave of
Monsignore Wiseman, he had courteously expressed a wish that we might
make a second visit to Rome; I said with great gravity, “We have a work
to do in England.” I went down at once to Sicily, and the presentiment
grew stronger. I struck into the middle of the island, and fell ill of
a fever at Leonforte. My servant thought that I was dying, and begged
for my last directions. I gave them, as he wished; but I said, “I shall
not die.” I repeated, “I shall not die, for I have not sinned against
light, I have not sinned against light.” I never have been able to make
out at all what I meant.
I got to Castro-Giovanni, and was laid up there for nearly three
weeks. Towards the end of May I set off for Palermo, taking three days
for the journey. Before starting from my inn in the morning of May 26th
or 27th, I sat down on my bed, and began to sob bitterly. My servant,
who had acted as my nurse, asked what ailed me. I could only answer, “I
have a work to do in England.”
I was aching to get home; yet for want of a vessel I was kept at
Palermo for three weeks. I began to visit the Churches, and they calmed
my impatience, though I did not attend any services. I knew nothing of
the presence of the Blessed Sacrament there. At last I got off in an
orange boat, bound for Marseilles. We were becalmed a whole week in the
Straits of Bonifacio. Then it was that I wrote the lines, “Lead, kindly
light,” which have since become well known. I was writing verses the
whole time of my passage. At length I got to Marseilles, and set off
for England. The fatigue of travelling was too much for me, and I was
laid up for several days at Lyons. At last I got off again and did not
stop night or day till I reached England, and my mother's house. My
brother had arrived from Persia only a few hours before. This was on
the Tuesday. The following Sunday, July 14th, Mr. Keble preached the
assize Sermon in the University Pulpit. It was published under the
title of “National Apostasy.” I have ever considered and kept the day,
as the start of the religious movement of 1833.
Footnote
[1] Vid. Mr. Morris's beautiful poem with this title.