CHAPTER XI
SECESSION
The Catholic layman has usually a fixed belief in the absolute integrity of his priesthood. He may entertain a suspicion of avarice or of indolence or worldliness with regard to certain individuals, but in point of faith and morality he is quite convinced of the invulnerability of his pastors. At wide intervals a few may be found who are acquainted with a secession, but the report is usually confined with great care to the locality, and the Catholic press—proof against all the ordinary temptations of the journalist when the honour of the Church is at stake—carefully abstains from disseminating the unwelcome tidings. Thus there are few laymen who know of more than one secession, and who are prepared to admit a serious and conscientious withdrawal from their communion. Indeed, there are few priests who know that there have been more than one or two secessions from their ranks, so carefully are such events concealed whenever it is possible.
The secrecy is, of course, not the effect of accident, for such incidents are not devoid of public interest, and are matters of very deep concern to the Catholic body. The Roman Church claims such a monopoly of demonstrative evidence that it receives a check when its credentials are rejected by one who is so familiar with them; it is—or would be, if it were frankly admitted—a flat contradiction of their persistent teaching that their claims only need to be studied to be admitted. Hence the ecclesiastical policy is to conceal a secession, if possible, and, when it is made public, to represent it as dishonest and immoral. My own position would not for a moment be admitted to be bonâ fide; the gentler of my colleagues seem to think that a ‘light’ has been taken from me for some inscrutable reason, whilst others have circulated various hypotheses in explanation, such as, pride of judgment, the inebriation of premature honours, &c. But of some of my fellow-seceders I had heard, before I left the Church, the grossest and most calumnious stories circulated; pure and malicious fabrications they were, simply intended to throw dust in the eyes of the laity and to make secession still more painful. The majority of priests, when questioned about a secession by Catholics, will simply shake their heads and mutter the usual phrase: ‘Wine and women.’
But in the first instance every effort is made to keep secession secret, even from clerics. I have mentioned a case in the note on page 62 which is, I think, known only to a small number of ecclesiastics: the dignitary in question had not discharged any public function for some years, hence his disappearance was unnoticed. I elicited the fact with some difficulty, and was earnestly begged not to divulge it further. On another occasion, at Forest Gate, I was asked to accompany a canon who was giving a mission there at the time to a certain address in the district. Noticing an air of secrecy about the visit, and a desire on the part of the good canon that I should remain outside, I entered the house with him, and found that it was occupied by an 'apostate' priest. So much I learned by accident, but neither the canon nor my own colleagues would give me the slightest information about him. I never heard of him before or since, and know nothing of his character: I merely mention the incident as an illustration of the concealment of secessions.
And not only is silence enjoined, but deliberate falsehoods[1] are told with regard to seceders. One of our superiors at Forest Gate seceded or ‘apostatised.’ My colleagues deliberately told our parishioners that he had gone on the foreign missions; some of them even specifying, under pressure, the district he was seeking. I was myself kept under that impression for a week, so that I could be relied upon not to spoil the story. I believe that even the cardinal was ignorant of the event, for a year afterwards his brother and one of the canons made a suspicious effort to learn from me the fate of the friar in question, of which they were evidently ignorant.
Hence it is that the fiction of the preternatural integrity of the Catholic clergy is successfully maintained. How many seceders there are it is impossible to say, but they are certainly more numerous than is usually supposed. I am at present acquainted with a dozen, but they are widely separated and frequently unaware of each other’s existence, so that there may be a still greater number. Many of them are names which were once in honour in the Church of Rome, and are now equally and more widely honoured in Unitarian pulpits or in other spheres of life: many of them being men of recognised literary or scientific ability.
The number is not, however, large in proportion to the number of English priests. The circumstances of their education, literary restrictions, and subsequent occupation are not of a nature to unsettle their minds very seriously. But a still more serious circumstance is the peculiarly painful nature of a breach with the Church of Rome. A breach with any life-long communion is attended with much pain, which is still more intense in the case of a minister of religion who finds himself impelled to that violent wrench of his affections which conscience occasionally dictates: he has formed definite habits of thought and of life and innumerable attachments whose breaking off is accompanied with a pain akin to the physical pain of dislocation and the wrenching asunder of nerves and fibres. For in the Church of Rome, at least, secession means farewell to the past—farewell to whatever honour, whatever esteem and affection may have been gained by a life of industry and merit. The decree of the Church goes forth against the ‘apostate’: he is excommunicated, cursed in this life and the next, and socially ostracised, if not worse. The many, the great crowd of admirers, listen to every idle tale that is hatched against him; the few, whose moral and humane instincts are too deep to be thus perverted, can but offer a distant and stealthy sympathy. He is cast out to recommence life, socially and financially, in middle age: perhaps homeless, friendless, and resourceless. A description of the writer’s experience of the ordeal may be interesting and instructive.
When I was forced at length to acknowledge that I had lost all faith in my religious profession, I thought to avail myself of my position as superior to enter into secular life with more facility. I revealed my state of mind to several non-Catholic acquaintances—it would have been fatal to my plans and quite useless to reveal it to a Catholic—and they agreed that I must withdraw, after a short time for reflection: only one man, though he is one of the most prominent public men in London, thought that I should be justified in remaining at my post. I began, therefore, to make inquiries and preparations for a new departure. In the meantime I continued to fulfil my duty to the college conscientiously—as a matter of common honesty and in order to give no ground for subsequent calumny.
For the same reason I resolved to take no money from the institution, though I felt that I should have been justified in doing so to some extent. When the superior of a monastery with which I was connected left its walls, he took 50l. with him ‘as a temporary loan’: that circumstance did not excite any particular discussion, and certainly there was no question of prosecution for theft. Similarly, another friar ran away with about 200l. My own case, however, was of quite a different character, and would be treated with a very different policy. The two friars were not genuine seceders from the Church: the second was clearly a case of wanton revolt against a recognised discipline, the first was rather doubtful—he only returned to penance after a fruitless effort to find secular employment. In both cases it was evidently the policy of the fraternity to conceal the misdemeanour from the laity: they remained priests, and for the credit of the Church and the prestige of its clergy their faults must be covered over at all costs. But when a priest really secedes from the Church the opposite policy is naturally followed; for the credit of the Church and the confusion of its enemies the seceder must be placed in as unfavourable a light as possible. I was too well acquainted with esoteric ecclesiastical teaching to be unprepared, so I determined to give them no handle. Studies were conducted with perfect regularity; discipline was so severe that my inferiors chafed under it; my accounts were balanced almost from day to day.
At length, I was urgently entreated by a lady at Forest Gate to let her into my confidence, for it was known that I was in great trouble. She was a clever, well educated person with whom I was particularly intimate, and I told her my intention, exacting strict secrecy, and intimating that a revelation would do me much injury, and that nothing could now detain me. I got an hysterical reply imploring me to remain in the Church, and saying that, in case of refusal, I should hear no more from her; she had been my kindest and most intimate friend in the Church of Rome—she kept her word and handed my letter to my colleagues.
A meeting of our cabinet ministers was at once called at Manchester; the two who were more friendly with me were absent, and the other four entrusted F. David with discretionary power to proceed. I had been to London and met him in the train in the evening; he spoke with apparent cordiality about everything except the object of his visit, which he carefully avoided. We sat for some hours chatting pleasantly—and I was fully aware that at the same time he had the order for my deposition in his pocket. However, I was not deceived; I began my preparations for departure the same evening, and kept up the fiction of perfect serenity.
Next morning he at once proceeded to business. He asked curtly of the condition of the college and of my own personality: in both cases I assured him with equal courtesy and curtness that everything was quite satisfactory. It had been the intention of my friend at London, and probably of my authorities, that F. David should induce me to communicate my difficulties and endeavour to remove them. For many reasons, which would have readily occurred to them under less exciting circumstances, it was not my intention to do so; and, as F. David knew that he had counselled me in those difficulties to the best of his power some years previously, I do not suppose that he expected any such confidence from me. He was the only one who had an intimate knowledge of me, having been my confessor during eight years, and he knew that I had arrived at a serious and final resolution. Without further ceremony he handed me the form of deposition from my position, and an order to retire to the friary at Chilworth, in Surrey. Out of curiosity I asked him why I was deposed, and he replied that he did not know.
The friary to which I was ordered is in a very secluded locality. It is the novitiate of the fraternity, and in it I should be compelled to occupy all my time in formal religious exercises, and should be entirely cut off from the outside world, besides being expected to put my confidence in a superior who was absolutely innocent of philosophy, and who would much rather frizzle an Agnostic at the stake than argue with him. It would have been utterly useless for me to go there, now that my mind was firmly convinced, and I preferred to remain and commence my new career with sympathetic friends. To avoid unpleasantness, however, I said nothing of my intention, and prepared to leave the college about the time of the departure of the train; although, when formally asked if I intended to take the train, I refused to say—it was well known that I would not. Meantime I packed up my books, &c., which I sent down to a friend’s house: I also balanced accounts and handed over all loose cash except a small sum which F. David had himself offered me for travelling expenses, and which I subsequently returned. At the last moment I was offered the fraternal kiss of peace: I accepted it from my young assistant, but courteously declined it from F. David. I thus turned my back for ever, as I imagined, on monasticism, and hastened down to meet one or two kind and sympathetic friends.
The following morning I strolled down to my friend’s office, and was surprised to find him closeted with a friar; it was one of my rebellious lay-brothers (though he had obtained an interview under a priest’s name) who had brought a letter from the college. The letter was to acquaint my friend with the fact that a Mr. McCabe, who had been left in temporary charge of the college, had absconded with a quantity of valuable property belonging thereto; that the said stolen property was understood to be on his premises; and that he was informed, in a friendly way, that the matter was in the hands of the police. As a commentary on the letter, the friar gave my friend a long and interesting critique of my public character and mental capacity, and was ejected with scant ceremony. In the impossibility of seeking immediate legal advice we decided to await developments.
In point of fact, I knew there were a few small books amongst my own, overlooked in the hurry of departure, which did belong to the college: these, of course, we intended to return. But the difficulty did not arise from that circumstance. Although my late colleagues did not communicate with me on the subject—if they had done so the same arrangement would have been made without police intervention—it appears that they claimed everything I had removed, even the clothes I wore, which they expected me to ask of them as an alms. The claim was ostensibly based on my vow of poverty or abdication of the right of property; the fact that the college was just as incapable of ownership as I (on their peculiar theory) was ignored, and the new rector, F. David, claimed them in the name of the college. They were books and instruments which friends had given me on various occasions (every friar accumulates a quantity of such presents, which remain his, for all practical purposes): legally (for canon law is happily not authoritative in England) they were my property, and I had no hesitation in thinking myself morally justified after my conscientious labours, and, especially, since most of the donors were hardly aware of the college’s existence.
In the afternoon the police-sergeant appeared and claimed the property which had been ‘stolen from St. Bernardine’s College.’ I believe that his proceedings were entirely incorrect, though I was unfortunately not sure of it at the time. However, we disputed the ownership of the property, and he at once collapsed. Then, in order to avoid litigation, I promised to surrender a large number of books if F. David would come to claim them.
Father David came, again bringing, to the increaseing astonishment of the little town, the representative of law and order. The interview was held with my friend, for I was absent, at Father David’s request. Afterwards we proceeded to the partition of the books, which was satisfactorily accomplished; the instrument was referred to the donor, who adjudged it to me. The next day, wearied to death and alarmed at the attitude the friars had shown, I returned the small sum of money I had taken for travelling expenses. Thus I narrowly escaped an ignominious position which would have increased a thousand-fold the difficulty of entering upon a new career.
Then came the painful desertion of all my late co-religionists. Even relatives, some to whom I was deeply attached, wrote harsh and bitter letters to me. I could not blame them; they were taught, as a matter of religious duty, to regard a secession in a moral light, not as a change of convictions. The following letter which I received from a friend at Forest Gate will serve to illustrate the marvellous and profound revulsion of feeling which takes place in them; I give it the more readily as it came from a man of mature age and good education, one, in fact, who is in a high educational position, and who, but two weeks previously, had spoken to me in terms of high esteem and affection.
‘Dear Father Antony,—I am deeply pained to find you have fled from the harvest field and become a scatterer—of what type remains to be seen. It is not for me to reproach you, Father Antony—the worm of conscience will do that efficiently, God knows—but it is necessary I should answer your last letter at once in order to prove my position and give no countenance to yours. You ask me to suspend judgment on you, which means that I should pass judgment on Father David forthwith and dub him slanderer, at the bidding of one who has obviously betrayed a sacred trust.
‘With reference to your Upton sermon it is true I suggested its publication for the benefit of your mission. Unsuspicious of heterodoxy I failed at first to catch its true import, but quiet reflection afterwards revealed it to me as a subtle attack on Christianity itself, through the doctrine of evolution as applied to morals and religion.[2] How in the face of this you can still talk of your “religious opinions” is inexplicable, surely? I can just conceive you as an Agnostic with a shred of honesty remaining—but as any other odd fish—No! However it may be, God save you from the lowest depths of unbelief! We know too well the evolution of the apostate.
‘Yet I desire to speak without bitterness [?] and shall think of you in sorrow only. If at any future time you think I can give you one helpful word, write to me, and believe me now to remain in simple truth,
The writer of the above is considered to be unusually well informed in philosophical matters, for a Catholic, and had been intimate with me for some time. I had, therefore, thought it possible, though improbable, that he would be able to take my secession in a purely intellectual light. After such perverse misunderstanding, and harsh and insulting language from him, I was constrained to abandon all hope of sympathy from Catholics. However, I quote one more letter; it is from one of my colleagues whom I much respect. Kind and generous at heart, he is unfortunately narrow in intellect, and imbued with the orthodox notion of a seceder; the effect of the system is, therefore, again visible. It is too long to quote in extenso, but I give the more relevant passages. He commences by saying of my words (in describing the treatment I had received), 'the perverse and degrading sentiments of Roman Catholics' that they are 'as insulting as they are false'; he then defends Father David about the scandal over the books, on the ground of my vow of poverty, adding that he did not think me consciously unjust, or unmindful of my duty to the college, or hypocritical. Then he continues:
'And now having made my protest, let me say, my dear Father, that you were quite right in thinking that I am your sincere friend and brother. . . . You will never find any friends so true as the old ones [?] and it is to be regretted that you did not, in the dark hours of doubt and temptation, seek help from those whose prudence and experience might have saved you from wrecking your life by this false step. "Vae soli." You did not have recourse to those whom you were bound to consult, but relied upon yourself; or, if you took counsel, it was rather with unbelievers than with those of the Faith and of the Order.[3]
'You know well that other and greater intellects than yours have examined the same questions more deeply than you can possibly have done, and have come to an opposite conclusion' [the writer is, as usual, sweetly oblivious of the fact that, in this century, the number of authorities against him is equally high and brilliant, at least]; 'and this ought to have made you distrust your own judgment, doubt the infallibility of your own lights, and feel there was much you have not been able to see, which if you could see, would lead you the opposite way. I fear that this pride may have contributed to bring about the withdrawal of the light. What may also have helped is that bitterness of spirit you have sometimes manifested towards others, which is not according to the dictates of charity. Add to that a want of respect for those in authority, and you have the factors which may have helped to bring this chastisement from God. I do not judge you [?]; you must know your own conscience, but I feel I ought to tell you what appears to me as likely to have been the cause of your misfortune. . . As it is, I can only pray earnestly to God to give you light and grace to see the truth and submit to it, and to beg our Holy Father not to cast you off. . . . That shall be my constant prayer, and one that I confidently hope will sooner or later be heard.
- ‘Believe me, my dear Father,
- ‘Very sorrowfully but very sincerely
- ‘Yours in Christ.’
Here, at least, a kindly and humane feeling reveals itself, in spite of the writer’s effort to adhere to the cruel system of his Church. Like the preceding letter, but much less harshly, it persists in viewing my action in a purely moral light: he cannot entertain the possibility of my being honestly compelled by my studies to secede. One pitiful effect of this is seen in his effort to sum up my faults—and he knew me intimately—my ‘pride’ of judgment is, I trust, obviously excusable, I was bound to form an opinion; and the fault of disrespect and harshness to authority will be understood in the light of preceding chapters. I confess that I have taken some complacency in my moral character after that summary of my advocatus diaboli; but it is pitiful to see that a clever, experienced, and humane priest can entertain the thought that a man will be damned eternally for such trivialities. His whole attitude is a significant effect, as in the preceding case, of their system; and it is only as effects and illustrations of that system that I offer these details of my secession.
It would be useless to describe all the incidents that arose at the separation; they were wearisome and painful repetitions of the same unfortunate spirit. During my clerical days I had attracted some suspicion by defending the possibility of honest secession from the Church, and especially of bonâ fide scepticism; it was now my turn to be sacrificed to the system which I had resented. It has been explained that the Church is prepared to go to any length to prevent scandal, and the recognition by the laity of an honourable secession of one of the clergy would be a serious scandal; hence little scruple is shown by priests in discussing the character of a former colleague. In my own case I believe that nothing very offensive has been invented; the favourite hypothesis seems to be that indiscreet flattery and premature honours have unfortunately deranged my intelligence, discipline, of course, requiring the usual excommunication and social ostracism. Those of my acquaintances who cannot convince themselves of my mental derangement have the grim alternative of regarding me as having ‘obviously betrayed a sacred trust’ (to quote my correspondent) , and infallibly excluded from ‘the homes of the blest.’ Only my own immediate family circle (and not all of those) and one other family, out of a wide circle of friends, still regard me as a rational and honest human being.
Such a violent disruption of the past is the lot of every seceder from Rome. Add to it the practical difficulty of re-commencing life in mature age, and some idea will be formed of one great force that helps to preserve the integrity of the Roman Catholic priesthood.
- ↑ It has been already explained that these are not looked upon as falsehoods by Catholic theologians. The case here given is a more direct deception than usual; generally they are quibbles and equivocations which are covered by their remarkably elastic principles of mental reserve and of the necessity of avoiding scandal. Here is another illustration:—
I was gently informed one day at Forest Gate that one of my students had lodged a serious complaint against me with certain higher superiors. The accusation was entirely erroneous; the student had been deceived by another, and I desired to undeceive him by explaining. I accosted him immediately, and asked him if he had been complaining about me. He not only emphatically denied it, but endeavoured, by his manner, to give me the impression that it was the last thing in the world he would dream of. When I told him of the superior’s words, he coolly replied that I had had no right to question him, so he was at liberty to deny it. He was a well educated young man of thirty years, son of an Anglican clergyman, and had been two years previously a man of honour, sincerity, and courage. He had been instructed to act as he did by the priests (hostile to me) with whom he had lodged the accusation. - ↑ He refers to the sermon mentioned on p. 91; there were just two lines in it on the ‘evolution of morals and religion,’ and they were orthodox. The writer it was who came to thank me for the sermon—a most unusual proceeding—and ask for its publication. He repeated his praise and his request twenty-four hours afterwards. It was a plea for the better education of the clergy, and, although it hit my own colleagues in a tender spot (and on that very account so much gratified the laity) they congratulated me on it without a murmur.
- ↑ The reader is already aware that both these statements are absolutely inaccurate. I never took counsel with an unbeliever, whereas I took counsel with the most competent friar we had for eight years, until his counsel was threadbare.