Phases of Faith | Page 2

imbibed more and more distinctly the full creed which

distinguishes that body of men; a body whose bright side I shall ever
appreciate, in spite of my present perception that they have a dark side
also. I well remember, that one day when I said to this friend of mine,
that I could not understand how the doctrine of Election was
reconcilable to God's Justice, but supposed that I should know this in
due time, if I waited and believed His word;--he replied with emphatic
commendation, that this was the spirit which God always blessed. Such
was the beginning and foundation of my faith,--an unhesitating
unconditional acceptance of whatever was found in the Bible. While I
am far from saying that my whole moral conduct was subjugated by my
creed, I must insist that it was no mere fancy resting in my intellect: it
was really operative on my temper, tastes, pursuits and conduct.
When I was sixteen, in 1821, I was "confirmed" by Dr. Howley, then
Bishop of London, and endeavoured to take on myself with greater
decision and more conscientious consistency the whole yoke of Christ.
Every thing in the Service was solemn to me, except the bishop: he
seemed to me a _made-up_ man and a mere pageant. I also remember
that when I was examined by the clergyman for confirmation, it
troubled me much that he only put questions which tested my memory
concerning the Catechism and other formulas, instead of trying to find
out whether I had any actual faith in that about which I was to be called
to profess faith: I was not then aware that his sole duty was to try my
knowledge. But I already felt keenly the chasm that separated the High
from the Low Church; and that it was impossible for me to sympathize
with those who imagined that Forms could command the Spirit.
Yet so entirely was I enslaved to one Form,--that of observing the
Sunday, or, as I had learned falsely to call it, the Sabbath,--that I fell
into painful and injurious conflict with a superior kinsman, by refusing
to obey his orders on the Sunday. He attempted to deal with me by
mere authority, not by instruction; and to yield my conscience to
authority would have been to yield up all spiritual life. I erred, but I
was faithful to God.
When I was rather more than seventeen, I subscribed the 39 Articles at
Oxford in order to be admitted to the University. Subscription was "no
bondage," but pleasure; for I well knew and loved the Articles, and
looked on them as a great bulwark of the truth; a bulwark, however, not
by being imposed, but by the spiritual and classical beauty which to me

shone in them. But it was certain to me before I went to Oxford, and
manifest in my first acquaintance with it, that very few academicians
could be said to believe them. Of the young men, not one in five
seemed to have any religious convictions at all: the elder residents
seldom or never showed sympathy with the doctrines that pervade that
formula. I felt from my first day there, that the system of compulsory
subscription was hollow, false, and wholly evil.
Oxford is a pleasant place for making friends,--friends of all sorts that
young men wish. One who is above envy and scorns servility,--who
can praise and delight in all the good qualities of his equals in age, and
does not desire to set himself above them, or to vie with his superiors in
rank,--may have more than enough of friends, for pleasure and for
profit. So certainly had I; yet no one of my equals gained any
ascendancy over me, nor perhaps could I have looked up to any for
advice. In some the intellect, in others the religious qualities, were as
yet insufficiently developed: in part also I wanted discrimination, and
did not well pick out the profounder minds of my acquaintance.
However, on my very first residence in College, I received a useful
lesson from another freshman,--a grave and thoughtful person, older (I
imagine) than most youths in their first term. Some readers may be
amused, as well as surprized, when I name the delicate question on
which I got into discussion with my fellow freshman. I had learned
from Evangelical books, that there is a twofold imputation to every
saint,--not of the "sufferings" only, but also of the "righteousness" of
Christ. They alleged that, while the sufferings of Jesus are a
compensation for the guilt of the believer and make him innocent, yet
this suffices not to give him a title to heavenly glory; for which he must
over and above be invested in active righteousness, by all Christ's good
works being made over to him. My new