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 irrelevant1 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 sufficiently3 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 talismans4 ... I thought life might be a dream, or I an Angel, and all this world a deception5, my fellow-angels by a playful device concealing6 themselves from me, and deceiving me with the semblance7 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 countenance8 to distinguish them,' etc. etc., I supposed he spoke9 of Angels who lived in the world, as it were disguised."
The other remark is this: "I was very superstitious10, and for some time previous to my conversion12" [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 conjecture13 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 butt14, as French masters too commonly were in that day, and spoke English very imperfectly. There was a Catholic family in the village, old maiden16 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 Chapel18, 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 drawn19 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 beads20 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 fixed21 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 recollected22 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 tracts23 against the Old Testament24, 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 brag25. Also, I recollect2 copying out some French verses, perhaps Voltaire's, against the immortality26 of the soul, and saying to myself something like "How dreadful, but how plausible27!"
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 creed28, and received into my intellect impressions of dogma, which, through God's mercy, have never been effaced29 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 doctrine30, which of course I do not include among those which I believe to have come from a divine source, viz. the doctrine of final perseverance31. 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 isolating32 me from the objects which surrounded me, in confirming me in my mistrust of the reality of material phenomena33, and making me rest in the thought of two and two only supreme34 and luminously35 self-evident beings, myself and my Creator;—for while I considered myself predestined to salvation36, 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 abjured37, 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 revered38. 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 Bishop40 of Calcutta, as in two sermons at St. John's Chapel he gave the history of Scott's life and death. I had been possessed41 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 zealous43 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 Scripture45 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 resolute46 opposition47 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 cognate48 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 discriminated49 by man, that the justified50 are conscious of their state of justification51, and that the regenerate52 cannot fall away. Catholics on the other hand shade and soften53 the awful antagonism54 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 persevere55 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 wrath56, 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 warfare57 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 assent58 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 primitive60 Christians61: but simultaneously63 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 obliterated64 from my reason and judgment65 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 extinction66 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 reluctance67, 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 anticipation68, 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 celibacy69 involved; as, for instance, missionary70 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 Oxford71, 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 perfectly15 certain that I have provoked him a great deal more. Moreover, in me such provocation73 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 controversy74, and of distinguishing between cognate ideas, and of obviating75 mistakes by anticipation, which to my surprise has been since considered, even in quarters friendly to me, to savour of the polemics76 of Rome. He is a man of most exact mind himself, and he used to snub me severely77, 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 "Treatise78 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 celebrated79 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, nay44 he does not reach it; but he does his work thoroughly80, 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 Creeds81. He considers, that, after learning from them the doctrines82 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 Rev11. 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 oracle83 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 dwelling84 on in the sequel; they are the underlying85 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 momentous86 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. Secondly87, 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 cogency88 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 instructor89. 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 concurred91 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 platonic92. When I was diverging93 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 substantive94 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 profanation95 of Christ's kingdom, by that double usurpation96, 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 clergy97," he says p. 133, "though they ought not to be the hired servants of the Civil Magistrate98, 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 ingenuity99, and with a thorough-going vehemence100, which perhaps we may refer to the circumstance, that he wrote, not in propria persona, but in the professed102 character of a Scotch103 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 exterior104. This is the meaning of a passage in Froude's Remains105, 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 specimen106 of a certain disdain107 for antiquity108 which had been growing on me now for several years. It showed itself in some flippant language against the Fathers in the Encyclop?dia 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 imbibed109 a portion of his spirit.
The truth is, I was beginning to prefer intellectual excellence110 to moral; I was drifting in the direction of liberalism. I was rudely awakened111 from my dream at the end of 1827 by two great blows—illness and bereavement112.
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 bigoted113 "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 imputation115 of time-serving, and that a great University ought not to be bullied116 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 dictated117 by liberalism.
Whately was considerably118 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 habitual119 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 blessings120, 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 courteousness122 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 intimacy123 of my dear and true friend Dr. Pusey, and could not fail to admire and revere39 a soul so devoted124 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 fully17 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 steadily125 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 incipient126 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 mere90 boy the highest honours of the University, he had turned from the admiration127 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 abashed128 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 reverence129 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 awe130 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, courteous121, 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 Christian62 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 profess101, 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 psalm131: "I will guide thee with mine eye. Be ye not like to horse and mule132, which have no understanding; whose mouths must be held with bit and bridle133, 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. Miller134, 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 concurring135 and converging136 probabilities, and that, both according to the constitution of the human mind and the will of its Maker137; 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 demonstration138; 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 legitimately139 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 consistency59, 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 pious140 belief, or a pious opinion, or a religious conjecture, or at least, a tolerance141 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 texture142, 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 superstition143, 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 liking144, but conscientiously145, 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 miraculous146 intervention147 in later times, and miraculous accounts were to be regarded in connection with the verisimilitude, scope, instrument, character, testimony148, 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 surmise149, 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 abrupt150 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 disorder151, and times of revival152, and as one region might be in the mid-day of religious fervour, and another in twilight153 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 presumptuous154 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 elastic155 force and graceful156 versatility157 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 narrative158, 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 overflowing159 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 speculative160 and bold. Dying prematurely161, 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 hatred162 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 maxim163, "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 Virgin164 its great pattern. He delighted in thinking of the saints; he had a keen appreciation165 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 penance166 and mortification167. 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 backbone168 in his severe adherence169 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 inquiry170, 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 controversies171 out of which they arose. He took an eager, courageous172 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 smitten173 with the love of the theocratic174 church; he went abroad and was shocked by the degeneracy which he thought he saw in the Catholics of Italy.
It is difficult to enumerate175 the precise additions to my theological creed which I derived176 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 chronologically177, 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 Nic?a. 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 Nic?a 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 exponent178 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 Clement179 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 zeal42 and freshness, but with the partiality of a neophyte180. 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 manifestation181 of realities greater than itself. Nature was a parable:[1] Scripture was an allegory: pagan literature, philosophy, and mythology182, properly understood, were but a preparation for the Gospel. The Greek poets and sages183 were in a certain sense prophets; for "thoughts beyond their thought to those high bards184 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 nought185; the outward framework, which concealed186 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 sundry187 times and in divers188 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 interpretation189; 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 eternity190. 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 prospect191, 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 pebble192, 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 ornaments193 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, δαιμ?νια, neither in heaven, nor in hell; partially194 fallen, capricious, wayward; noble or crafty195, benevolent196 or malicious197, 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 politic114 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 countenanced198 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, Iren?us, Clement, Tertullian, Origen, Lactantius, Sulpicius, Ambrose, Nazianzen), hold that, though Satan fell from the beginning, the Angels fell before the deluge199, falling in love with the daughters of men. This has lately come across me as a remarkable200 solution of a notion which I cannot help holding. Daniel speaks as if each nation had its guardian201 Angel. I cannot but think that there are beings with a great deal of good in them, yet with great defects, who are the animating202 principles of certain institutions, etc., etc.... Take England, with many high virtues203, 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 vindicating204 myself from the charge of dishonesty.—There is indeed another view of the economy brought out, in the course of the same dissertation205 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 passionate206 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 agitation207 was going on around me as I wrote. The Whigs had come into power; Lord Grey had told the Bishops208 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 apathy209 on the subject in some quarters, such imbecile alarm in others; the true principles of Churchmanship seemed so radically210 decayed, and there was such distraction211 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 diluting212 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 venerated214 persons of the old school. And the Evangelical party itself seemed, with their late successes, to have lost that simplicity215 and unworldliness which I admired so much in Milner and Scott. It was not that I did not venerate213 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 triumphant216 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 ascetics217, the patience of her martyrs218, the irresistible219 determination of her bishops, the joyous220 swing of her advance, both exalted221 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 prospects222, 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 Mediterranean223, 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 ecclesiastics224, 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 Tenebr?, 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 isolation225. England was in my thoughts solely226, 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 fretted227 me inwardly. I became fierce against its instruments and its manifestations228. A French vessel229 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 specially72 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 alluding230 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 wrought231, 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 courteously232 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 presentiment233 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 sob234 bitterly. My servant, who had acted as my nurse, asked what ailed235 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 impatience236, 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, kindly237 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 fatigue238 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 Apostasy239." I have ever considered and kept the day, as the start of the religious movement of 1833.
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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sufficiently
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talismans
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| n.护身符( talisman的名词复数 )；驱邪物；有不可思议的力量之物；法宝 | |
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deception
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| n.欺骗，欺诈；骗局，诡计 | |
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concealing
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semblance
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countenance
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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superstitious
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rev
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conversion
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| n.转化，转换，转变 | |
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conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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17
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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18
chapel
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| n.小教堂，殡仪馆 | |
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19
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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20
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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21
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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22
recollected
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| adj.冷静的；镇定的；被回忆起的；沉思默想的v.记起，想起( recollect的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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23
tracts
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| 大片土地( tract的名词复数 )； 地带； （体内的）道； （尤指宣扬宗教、伦理或政治的）短文 | |
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24
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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25
brag
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| v./n.吹牛，自夸；adj.第一流的 | |
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26
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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27
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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28
creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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29
effaced
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| v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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30
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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31
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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32
isolating
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| adj.孤立的，绝缘的v.使隔离( isolate的现在分词 )；将…剔出（以便看清和单独处理）；使（某物质、细胞等）分离；使离析 | |
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33
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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34
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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35
luminously
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| 发光的； 明亮的； 清楚的； 辉赫 | |
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36
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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37
abjured
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| v.发誓放弃( abjure的过去式和过去分词 )；郑重放弃（意见）；宣布撤回（声明等）；避免 | |
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38
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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39
revere
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| vt.尊崇，崇敬，敬畏 | |
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40
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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41
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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42
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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43
zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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44
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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45
scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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46
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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47
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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48
cognate
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| adj.同类的，同源的，同族的；n.同家族的人，同源词 | |
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49
discriminated
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| 分别，辨别，区分( discriminate的过去式和过去分词 )； 歧视，有差别地对待 | |
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50
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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51
justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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52
regenerate
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| vt.使恢复，使新生；vi.恢复，再生；adj.恢复的 | |
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53
soften
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| v.(使)变柔软；(使)变柔和 | |
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54
antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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55
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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56
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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57
warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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58
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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59
consistency
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| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
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60
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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61
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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62
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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63
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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64
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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65
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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66
extinction
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| n.熄灭，消亡，消灭，灭绝，绝种 | |
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67
reluctance
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| n.厌恶，讨厌，勉强，不情愿 | |
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68
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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69
celibacy
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| n.独身(主义) | |
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70
missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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71
Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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72
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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73
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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74
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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75
obviating
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| v.避免，消除（贫困、不方便等）( obviate的现在分词 ) | |
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76
polemics
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| n.辩论术，辩论法；争论( polemic的名词复数 )；辩论；辩论术；辩论法 | |
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77
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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78
treatise
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| n.专著；(专题)论文 | |
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79
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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80
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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81
creeds
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| （尤指宗教）信条，教条( creed的名词复数 ) | |
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82
doctrines
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| n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 )；教义；学说；（政府政策的）正式声明 | |
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83
oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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84
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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85
underlying
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| adj.在下面的，含蓄的，潜在的 | |
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86
momentous
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| adj.重要的，重大的 | |
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87
secondly
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| adv.第二，其次 | |
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88
cogency
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| n.说服力；adj.有说服力的 | |
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89
instructor
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| n.指导者，教员，教练 | |
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90
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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91
concurred
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| 同意（concur的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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92
platonic
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| adj.精神的；柏拉图（哲学）的 | |
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93
diverging
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| 分开( diverge的现在分词 )； 偏离； 分歧； 分道扬镳 | |
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94
substantive
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| adj.表示实在的；本质的、实质性的；独立的；n.实词，实名词；独立存在的实体 | |
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95
profanation
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| n.亵渎 | |
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96
usurpation
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| n.篡位；霸占 | |
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97
clergy
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| n.[总称]牧师，神职人员 | |
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98
magistrate
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| n.地方行政官，地方法官，治安官 | |
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99
ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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100
vehemence
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| n.热切；激烈；愤怒 | |
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101
profess
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| v.声称，冒称，以...为业，正式接受入教，表明信仰 | |
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102
professed
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| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
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103
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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104
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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105
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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106
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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107
disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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108
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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109
imbibed
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| v.吸收( imbibe的过去式和过去分词 )；喝；吸取；吸气 | |
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110
excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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111
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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112
bereavement
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| n.亲人丧亡，丧失亲人，丧亲之痛 | |
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113
bigoted
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| adj.固执己见的，心胸狭窄的 | |
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114
politic
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| adj.有智虑的；精明的；v.从政 | |
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115
imputation
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| n.归罪，责难 | |
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116
bullied
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| adj.被欺负了v.恐吓，威逼( bully的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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117
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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118
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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119
habitual
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| adj.习惯性的；通常的，惯常的 | |
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120
blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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121
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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122
courteousness
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| Courteousness | |
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123
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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124
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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125
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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126
incipient
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| adj.起初的，发端的，初期的 | |
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127
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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128
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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130
awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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131
psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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132
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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133
bridle
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| n.笼头，束缚；vt.抑制，约束；动怒 | |
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134
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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135
concurring
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| 同时发生的，并发的 | |
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136
converging
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| adj.收敛[缩]的，会聚的，趋同的v.（线条、运动的物体等）会于一点( converge的现在分词 )；（趋于）相似或相同；人或车辆汇集；聚集 | |
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137
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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138
demonstration
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| n.表明，示范，论证，示威 | |
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139
legitimately
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| ad.合法地；正当地，合理地 | |
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140
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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141
tolerance
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| n.宽容；容忍，忍受；耐药力；公差 | |
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142
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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143
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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144
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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145
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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146
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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147
intervention
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| n.介入，干涉，干预 | |
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148
testimony
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| n.证词；见证，证明 | |
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149
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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150
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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151
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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152
revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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153
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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154
presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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155
elastic
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| n.橡皮圈，松紧带；adj.有弹性的；灵活的 | |
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156
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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157
versatility
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| n.多才多艺，多样性，多功能 | |
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158
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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159
overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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160
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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161
prematurely
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| adv.过早地，贸然地 | |
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162
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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163
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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164
virgin
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| n.处女，未婚女子；adj.未经使用的；未经开发的 | |
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165
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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166
penance
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| n.（赎罪的）惩罪 | |
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167
mortification
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| n.耻辱，屈辱 | |
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168
backbone
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| n.脊骨，脊柱，骨干；刚毅，骨气 | |
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169
adherence
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| n.信奉，依附，坚持，固着 | |
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170
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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171
controversies
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| 争论 | |
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172
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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173
smitten
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| 猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去分词 ) | |
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174
theocratic
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| adj.神权的，神权政治的 | |
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175
enumerate
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| v.列举，计算，枚举，数 | |
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176
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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177
chronologically
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| ad. 按年代的 | |
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178
exponent
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| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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179
clement
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| adj.仁慈的；温和的 | |
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180
neophyte
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| n.新信徒；开始者 | |
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181
manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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182
mythology
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| n.神话，神话学，神话集 | |
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183
sages
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| n.圣人( sage的名词复数 )；智者；哲人；鼠尾草（可用作调料） | |
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184
bards
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| n.诗人( bard的名词复数 ) | |
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185
nought
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| n.／adj.无，零 | |
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186
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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187
sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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188
divers
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| adj.不同的；种种的 | |
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189
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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190
eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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191
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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192
pebble
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| n.卵石，小圆石 | |
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193
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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194
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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195
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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196
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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197
malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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198
countenanced
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| v.支持，赞同，批准( countenance的过去式 ) | |
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199
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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200
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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201
guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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202
animating
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| v.使有生气( animate的现在分词 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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203
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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204
vindicating
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| v.澄清（某人/某事物）受到的责难或嫌疑( vindicate的现在分词 )；表明或证明（所争辩的事物）属实、正当、有效等；维护 | |
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205
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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206
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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207
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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208
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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209
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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210
radically
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| ad.根本地，本质地 | |
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211
distraction
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| n.精神涣散，精神不集中，消遣，娱乐 | |
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212
diluting
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| 稀释，冲淡( dilute的现在分词 )； 削弱，使降低效果 | |
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213
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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214
venerated
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| 敬重（某人或某事物），崇敬( venerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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215
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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216
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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217
ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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218
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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219
irresistible
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| adj.非常诱人的，无法拒绝的，无法抗拒的 | |
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220
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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221
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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222
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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223
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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224
ecclesiastics
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| n.神职者，教会，牧师( ecclesiastic的名词复数 ) | |
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225
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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226
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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227
fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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228
manifestations
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| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
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229
vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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230
alluding
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| 提及，暗指( allude的现在分词 ) | |
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231
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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232
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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233
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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234
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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235
ailed
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| v.生病( ail的过去式和过去分词 )；感到不舒服；处境困难；境况不佳 | |
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236
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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237
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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238
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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239
apostasy
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| n.背教，脱党 | |
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