{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_24574/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_24574","id":"gutenberg_24574","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/24574","summary":null,"tags":["Anglican Communion -- England -- Fiction","Category: British Literature","Category: Novels","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Christian fiction","Conversion -- Catholic Church -- Fiction","University of Oxford -- Students -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by Suzanne Lybarger, Pilar Somoza Fernandez and\nthe Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian\nLibraries)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nLOSS AND GAIN:\nTHE STORY OF A CONVERT.\n\n\nBY\nJOHN HENRY NEWMAN,\nOF THE ORATORY.\n\n\nADHUC MODICUM ALIQUANTULUM,\nQUI VENTURUS EST, VENIET, ET NON TARDABIT.\nJUSTUS AUTEM MEUS EX FIDE VIVIT.\n\n\nEighth Edition.\n\n\nLONDON: BURNS AND OATES.\n1881.\n\n\n\n\nTO THE VERY REV.\nCHARLES W. RUSSELL, D.D.,\nPRESIDENT OF ST. PATRICK'S COLLEGE, MAYNOOTH,\n&c. &c.\n\n\nMy dear Dr. Russell,--Now that at length I take the step of printing my\nname in the Title-Page of this Volume, I trust I shall not be\nencroaching on the kindness you have so long shown to me, if I venture\nto follow it up by placing yours in the page which comes next, thus\nassociating myself with you, and recommending myself to my readers by\nthe association.\n\nNot that I am dreaming of bringing down upon you, in whole or part, the\ncriticisms, just or unjust, which lie against a literary attempt which\nhas in some quarters been thought out of keeping with my antecedents and\nmy position; but the warm and sympathetic interest which you took in\nOxford matters thirty years ago, and the benefits which I derived\npersonally from that interest, are reasons why I am desirous of\nprefixing your name to a Tale, which, whatever its faults, at least is a\nmore intelligible and exact representation of the thoughts, sentiments,\nand aspirations, then and there prevailing, than was to be found in the\nanti-Catholic pamphlets, charges, sermons, reviews, and story-books of\nthe day.\n\nThese reasons, too, must be my apology, should I seem to be asking your\nacceptance of a Volume, which, over and above its intrinsic defects, is,\nin its very subject and style, hardly commensurate with the theological\nreputation and the ecclesiastical station of the person to whom it is\npresented.\n\n    I am, my dear Dr. Russell,\n\n                          Your affectionate friend,\n\n                                                  JOHN H. NEWMAN.\n\nTHE ORATORY, _Feb. 21, 1874_.\n\n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT.\n\n\nThe following tale is not intended as a work of controversy in behalf of\nthe Catholic Religion; but as a description of what is understood by\nfew, viz. the course of thought and state of mind,--or rather one such\ncourse and state,--which issues in conviction of its Divine origin.\n\nNor is it founded on fact, to use the common phrase. It is not the\nhistory of any individual mind among the recent converts to the Catholic\nChurch. The principal characters are imaginary; and the writer wishes to\ndisclaim personal allusion in any. It is with this view that he has\nfeigned ecclesiastical bodies and places, to avoid the chance, which\nmight otherwise occur, of unintentionally suggesting to the reader real\nindividuals, who were far from his thoughts.\n\nAt the same time, free use has been made of sayings and doings which\nwere characteristic of the time and place in which the scene is laid.\nAnd, moreover, when, as in a tale, a general truth or fact is exhibited\nin individual specimens of it, it is impossible that the ideal\nrepresentation should not more or less coincide, in spite of the\nauthor's endeavour, or even without his recognition, with its existing\ninstances or champions.\n\nIt must also be added, to prevent a farther misconception, that no\nproper representative is intended in this tale, of the religious\nopinions which had lately so much influence in the University of Oxford.\n\n_Feb. 21, 1848._\n\n\n\n\nADVERTISEMENT TO THE SIXTH EDITION.\n\n\nA tale, directed against the Oxford converts to the Catholic Faith, was\nsent from England to the author of this Volume in the summer of 1847,\nwhen he was resident at Santa Croce in Rome. Its contents were as\nwantonly and preposterously fanciful, as they were injurious to those\nwhose motives and actions it professed to represent; but a formal\ncriticism or grave notice of it seemed to him out of place.\n\nThe suitable answer lay rather in the publication of a second tale;\ndrawn up with a stricter regard to truth and probability, and with at\nleast some personal knowledge of Oxford, and some perception of the\nvarious aspects of the religious phenomenon, which the work in question\nhandled so rudely and so unskilfully.\n\nEspecially was he desirous of dissipating the fog of pomposity and\nsolemn pretence, which its writer had thrown around the personages\nintroduced into it, by showing, as in a specimen, that those who were\nsmitten with love of the Catholic Church, were nevertheless as able to\nwrite common-sense prose as other men.\n\nUnder these circumstances \"Loss and Gain\" was given to the public.\n\n_Feb. 21, 1874._\n\n\n\n\nLOSS AND GAIN.\n\n\n\n\nPart I.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nCharles Reding was the only son of a clergyman, who was in possession of\na valuable benefice in a midland county. His father intended him for\norders, and sent him at a proper age to a public school. He had long\nrevolved in his mind the respective advantages and disadvantages of\npublic and private education, and had decided in favour of the former.\n\"Seclusion,\" he said, \"is no security for virtue. There is no telling\nwhat is in a boy's heart: he may look as open and happy as usual, and be\nas kind and attentive, when there is a great deal wrong going on within.\nThe heart is a secret with its Maker; no one on earth can hope to get at\nit or to touch it. I have a cure of souls; what do I really know of my\nparishioners? Nothing; their hearts are sealed books to me. And this\ndear boy, he comes close to me; he throws his arms round me, but his\nsoul is as much out of my sight as if he were at the antipodes. I am\nnot accusing him of reserve, dear fellow: his very love and reverence\nfor me keep him in a sort of charmed solitude. I cannot expect to get at\nthe bottom of him.\n\n    'Each in his hidden sphere of bliss or woe,\n    Our hermit spirits dwell.'\n\nIt is our lot here below. No one on earth can know Charles's secret\nthoughts. Did I guard him here at home ever so well, yet, in due time,\nit would be found that a serpent had crept into the heart of his\ninnocence. Boys do not fully know what is good and what is evil; they do\nwrong things at first almost innocently. Novelty hides vice from them;\nthere is no one to warn them or give them rules; and they become slaves\nof sin, while they are learning what sin is. They go to the University,\nand suddenly plunge into excesses, the greater in proportion to their\ninexperience. And, besides all this, I am not equal to the task of\nforming so active and inquisitive a mind as his. He already asks\nquestions which I know not how to answer. So he shall go to a public\nschool. There he will get discipline at least, even if he has more of\ntrial: at least he will gain habits of self-command, manliness, and\ncircumspection; he will learn to use his eyes, and will find materials\nto use them upon; and thus will be gradually trained for the liberty\nwhich, any how, he must have when he goes to college.\"\n\nThis was the more necessary, because, with many high excellences,\nCharles was naturally timid and retiring, over-sensitive, and, though\nlively and cheerful, yet not without a tinge of melancholy in his\ncharacter, which sometimes degenerated into mawkishness.\n\nTo Eton, then, he went; and there had the good fortune to fall into the\nhands of an excellent tutor, who, while he instructed him in the old\nChurch-of-England principles of Mant and Doyley, gave his mind a\nreligious impression, which secured him against the allurements of bad\ncompany, whether at the school itself, or afterwards at Oxford. To that\ncelebrated seat of learning he was in due time transferred, being\nentered at St. Saviour's College; and he is in his sixth term from\nmatriculation, and his fourth of residence, at the time our story opens.\n\nAt Oxford, it is needless to say, he had found a great number of his\nschoolfellows, but, it so happened, had found very few friends among\nthem. Some were too gay for him, and he had avoided them; others, with\nwhom he had been intimate at Eton, having high connections, had fairly\ncut him on coming into residence, or, being entered at other colleges,\nhad lost sight of him. Almost everything depends at Oxford, in the\nmatter of acquaintance, on proximity of rooms. You choose your friend,\nnot so much by your tastes, as by your staircase. There is a story of a\nLondon tradesman who lost custom after beautifying his premises, because\nhis entrance went up a step; and we all know how great is the difference\nbetween open and shut doors when we walk along a street of shops. In a\nuniversity a youth's hours are portioned out to him. A regular man gets\nup and goes to chapel, breakfasts, gets up his lectures, goes to\nlecture, walks, dines; there is little to induce him to mount any\nstaircase but his own; and if he does so, ten to one he finds the friend\nfrom home whom he is seeking; not to say that freshmen, who naturally\nhave common feelings and interests, as naturally are allotted a\nstaircase in common. And thus it was that Charles Reding was brought\nacross William Sheffield, who had come into residence the same term as\nhimself.\n\nThe minds of young people are pliable and elastic, and easily\naccommodate themselves to any one they fall in with. They find grounds\nof attraction both where they agree with one another and where they\ndiffer; what is congenial to themselves creates sympathy; what is\ncorrelative, or supplemental, creates admiration and esteem. And what is\nthus begun is often continued in after-life by the force of habit and\nthe claims of memory. Thus, in the choice of friends, chance often does\nfor us as much as the most careful selection could have effected. What\nwas the character and degree of that friendship which sprang up between\nthe freshmen Reding and Sheffield, we need not here minutely explain: it\nwill be enough to say, that what they had in common was freshmanship,\ngood talents, and the back staircase; and that they differed in\nthis--that Sheffield had lived a good deal with people older than\nhimself, had read much in a desultory way, and easily picked up opinions\nand facts, especially on controversies of the day, without laying\nanything very much to heart; that he was ready, clear-sighted,\nunembarrassed, and somewhat forward: Charles, on the other hand, had\nlittle knowledge as yet of principles or their bearings, but understood\nmore deeply than Sheffield, and held more practically, what he had once\nreceived; he was gentle and affectionate, and easily led by others,\nexcept when duty clearly interfered. It should be added, that he had\nfallen in with various religious denominations in his father's parish,\nand had a general, though not a systematic, knowledge of their tenets.\nWhat they were besides, will be seen as our narrative advances.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nIt was a little past one P.M. when Sheffield, passing Charles's door,\nsaw it open. The college servant had just entered with the usual\nhalf-commons for luncheon, and was employed in making up the fire.\nSheffield followed him in, and found Charles in his cap and gown,\nlounging on the arm of his easy-chair, and eating his bread and cheese.\nSheffield asked him if he slept, as well as ate and drank, \"accoutred as\nhe was.\"\n\n\"I am just going for a turn into the meadow,\" said Charles; \"this is to\nme the best time of the year: _nunc formosissimus annus_; everything is\nbeautiful; the laburnums are out, and the may. There is a greater\nvariety of trees there than in any other place I know hereabouts; and\nthe planes are so touching just now, with their small multitudinous\ngreen hands half-opened; and there are two or three such fine dark\nwillows stretching over the Cherwell; I think some dryad inhabits them:\nand, as you wind along, just over your right shoulder is the Long Walk,\nwith the Oxford buildings seen between the elms. They say there are dons\nhere who recollect when the foliage was unbroken, nay, when you might\nwalk under it in hard rain, and get no wet. I know I got drenched there\nthe other day.\"\n\nSheffield laughed, and said that Charles must put on his beaver, and\nwalk with him a different way. He wanted a good walk; his head was\nstupid from his lectures; that old Jennings prosed so awfully upon\nPaley, it made him quite ill. He had talked of the Apostles as neither\n\"deceivers nor deceived,\" of their \"sensible miracles,\" and of their\n\"dying for their testimony,\" till he did not know whether he himself was\nan _ens physiologicum_ or a _totum metaphysicum_, when Jennings had\ncruelly asked him to repeat Paley's argument; and because he had not\ngiven it in Jennings' words, friend Jennings had pursed up his lips, and\ngone through the whole again; so intent, in his wooden enthusiasm, on\nhis own analysis of it, that he did not hear the clock strike the hour;\nand, in spite of the men's shuffling their feet, blowing their noses,\nand looking at their watches, on he had gone for a good twenty minutes\npast the time; and would have been going on even then, he verily\nbelieved, but for an interposition only equalled by that of the geese at\nthe Capitol. For that, when he had got about half through his\nrecapitulation, and was stopping at the end of a sentence to see the\nimpression he was making, that uncouth fellow, Lively, moved by what\nhappy inspiration he did not know, suddenly broke in, apropos of\nnothing, nodding his head, and speaking in a clear cackle, with, \"Pray,\nsir, what is your opinion of the infallibility of the Pope?\" Upon which\nevery one but Jennings did laugh out: but he, _au contraire_, began to\nlook very black; and no one can tell what would have happened, had he\nnot cast his eyes by accident on his watch, on which he coloured, closed\nhis book, and _instanter_ sent the whole lecture out of the room.\n\nCharles laughed in his turn, but added, \"Yet, I assure you, Sheffield,\nthat Jennings, stiff and cold as he seems, is, I do believe, a very good\nfellow at bottom. He has before now spoken to me with a good deal of\nfeeling, and has gone out of his way to do me favours. I see poor bodies\ncoming to him for charity continually; and they say that his sermons at\nHoly Cross are excellent.\"\n\nSheffield said he liked people to be natural, and hated that donnish\nmanner. What good could it do? and what did it mean?\n\n\"That is what I call bigotry,\" answered Charles; \"I am for taking every\none for what he is, and not for what he is not: one has this excellence,\nanother that; no one is everything. Why should we not drop what we don't\nlike, and admire what we like? This is the only way of getting through\nlife, the only true wisdom, and surely our duty into the bargain.\"\n\nSheffield thought this regular prose, and unreal. \"We must,\" he said,\n\"have a standard of things, else one good thing is as good as another.\nBut I can't stand here all day,\" he continued, \"when we ought to be\nwalking.\" And he took off Charles's cap, and, placing his hat on him\ninstead, said, \"Come, let us be going.\"\n\n\"Then must I give up my meadow?\" said Charles.\n\n\"Of course you must,\" answered Sheffield; \"you must take a beaver walk.\nI want you to go as far as Oxley, a village some little way out, all\nthe vicars of which, sooner or later, are made bishops. Perhaps even\nwalking there may do us some good.\"\n\nThe friends set out, from hat to boot in the most approved Oxford\nbandbox-cut of trimness and prettiness. Sheffield was turning into the\nHigh Street, when Reding stopped him: \"It always annoys me,\" he said,\n\"to go down High Street in a beaver; one is sure to meet a proctor.\"\n\n\"All those University dresses are great fudge,\" answered Sheffield; \"how\nare we the better for them? They are mere outside, and nothing else.\nBesides, our gown is so hideously ugly.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't go along with your sweeping condemnation,\" answered\nCharles; \"this is a great place, and should have a dress. I declare,\nwhen I first saw the procession of Heads at St. Mary's, it was quite\nmoving. First----\"\n\n\"Of course the pokers,\" interrupted Sheffield.\n\n\"First the organ, and every one rising; then the Vice-Chancellor in red,\nand his bow to the preacher, who turns to the pulpit; then all the Heads\nin order; and lastly the Proctors. Meanwhile, you see the head of the\npreacher slowly mounting up the steps; when he gets in, he shuts-to the\ndoor, looks at the organ-loft to catch the psalm, and the voices strike\nup.\"\n\nSheffield laughed, and then said, \"Well, I confess I agree with you in\nyour instance. The preacher is, or is supposed to be, a person of\ntalent; he is about to hold forth; the divines, the students of a great\nUniversity, are all there to listen. The pageant does but fitly\nrepresent the great moral fact which is before us; I understand _this_.\nI don't call _this_ fudge; what I mean by fudge is, outside without\ninside. Now I must say, the sermon itself, and not the least of all the\nprayer before it--what do they call it?\"\n\n\"The bidding prayer,\" said Reding.\n\n\"Well, both sermon and prayer are often arrant fudge. I don't often go\nto University sermons, but I have gone often enough not to go again\nwithout compulsion. The last preacher I heard was from the country. Oh,\nit was wonderful! He began at the pitch of his voice, 'Ye shall pray.'\nWhat stuff! 'Ye shall _pray_;' because old Latimer or Jewell said, 'Ye\nshall praie,' therefore we must not say, 'Let us pray.' Presently he\nbrought out,\" continued Sheffield, assuming a pompous and up-and-down\ntone, \"'especially for that pure and apostolic branch of it\n_established_,'--here the man rose on his toes, '_established_ in these\ndominions.' Next came, 'for our Sovereign Lady Victoria, Queen, Defender\nof the Faith, in all causes and over all persons, ecclesiastical as well\nas civil, within these her dominions, _supreme_'--an awful pause, with\nan audible fall of the sermon-case on the cushion; as though nature did\nnot contain, as if the human mind could not sustain, a bigger thought.\nThen followed, 'the pious and munificent founder,' in the same twang,\n'of All Saints' and Leicester Colleges,' But his _chef-d'oeuvre_ was\nhis emphatic recognition of '_all_ the doctors, _both_ the proctors', as\nif the numerical antithesis had a graphic power, and threw those\nexcellent personages into a charming _tableau vivant_.\"\n\nCharles was amused at all this; but he said in answer, that he never\nheard a sermon but it was his own fault if he did not gain good from it;\nand he quoted the words of his father, who, when he one day asked him if\nso-and-so had not preached a very good sermon, \"My dear Charles,\" his\nfather had said, \"all sermons are good.\" The words, simple as they were,\nhad retained a hold on his memory.\n\nMeanwhile, they had proceeded down the forbidden High Street, and were\ncrossing the bridge, when, on the opposite side, they saw before them a\ntall, upright man, whom Sheffield had no difficulty in recognizing as a\nbachelor of Nun's Hall, and a bore at least of the second magnitude. He\nwas in cap and gown, but went on his way, as if intending, in that\nextraordinary guise, to take a country walk. He took the path which they\nwere going themselves, and they tried to keep behind him; but they\nwalked too briskly, and he too leisurely, to allow of that. It is very\ndifficult duly to delineate a bore in a narrative, for the very reason\nthat he _is_ a bore. A tale must aim at condensation, but a bore acts in\nsolution. It is only on the long-run that he is ascertained. Then,\nindeed, he is _felt_; he is oppressive; like the sirocco, which the\nnative detects at once, while a foreigner is often at fault. _Tenet\nocciditque._ Did you hear him make but one speech, perhaps you would say\nhe was a pleasant, well-informed man; but when he never comes to an end,\nor has one and the same prose every time you meet him, or keeps you\nstanding till you are fit to sink, or holds you fast when you wish to\nkeep an engagement, or hinders you listening to important\nconversation,--then there is no mistake, the truth bursts on you,\n_apparent dirae facies_, you are in the clutches of a bore. You may\nyield, or you may flee; you cannot conquer. Hence it is clear that a\nbore cannot be represented in a story, or the story would be the bore as\nmuch as he. The reader, then, must believe this upright Mr. Bateman to\nbe what otherwise he might not discover, and thank us for our\nconsideration in not proving as well as asserting it.\n\nSheffield bowed to him courteously, and would have proceeded on his way;\nbut Bateman, as became his nature, would not suffer it; he seized him.\n\"Are you disposed,\" he said, \"to look into the pretty chapel we are\nrestoring on the common? It is quite a gem--in the purest style of the\nfourteenth century. It was in a most filthy condition, a mere cow-house;\nbut we have made a subscription, and set it to rights.\"\n\n\"We are bound for Oxley,\" Sheffield answered; \"you would be taking us\nout of our way.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" said Bateman; \"it's not a stone's throw from the\nroad; you must not refuse me. I'm sure you'll like it.\"\n\nHe proceeded to give the history of the chapel--all it had been, all it\nmight have been, all it was not, all it was to be.\n\n\"It is to be a real specimen of a Catholic chapel,\" he said; \"we mean to\nmake the attempt of getting the Bishop to dedicate it to the Royal\nMartyr--why should not we have our St. Charles as well as the\nRomanists?--and it will be quite sweet to hear the vesper-bell tolling\nover the sullen moor every evening, in all weathers, and amid all the\nchanges and chances of this mortal life.\"\n\nSheffield asked what congregation they expected to collect at that hour.\n\n\"That's a low view,\" answered Bateman; \"it does not signify at all. In\nreal Catholic churches the number of the congregation is nothing to the\npurpose; service is for those who come, not for those who stay away.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sheffield, \"I understand what that means when a Roman\nCatholic says it; for a priest is supposed to offer sacrifice, which he\ncan do without a congregation as well as with one. And, again, Catholic\nchapels often stand over the bodies of martyrs, or on some place of\nmiracle, as a record; but our service is 'Common Prayer,' and how can\nyou have that without a congregation?\"\n\nBateman replied that, even if members of the University did not drop in,\nwhich he expected, at least the bell would be a memento far and near.\n\n\"Ah, I see,\" retorted Sheffield, \"the use will be the reverse of what\nyou said just now; it is not for those that come, but for those who stay\naway. The congregation is outside, not inside; it's an outside concern.\nI once saw a tall church-tower--so it appeared from the road; but on the\nsides you saw it was but a thin wall, made to look like a tower, in\norder to give the church an imposing effect. Do run up such a bit of a\nwall, and put the bell in it.\"\n\n\"There's another reason,\" answered Bateman, \"for restoring the chapel,\nquite independent of the service. It has been a chapel from time\nimmemorial, and was consecrated by our Catholic forefathers.\"\n\nSheffield argued that this would be as good a reason for keeping up the\nMass as for keeping up the chapel.\n\n\"We do keep up the Mass,\" said Bateman; \"we offer our Mass every Sunday,\naccording to the rite of the English Cyprian, as honest Peter Heylin\ncalls him; what would you have more?\"\n\nWhether Sheffield understood this or no, at least it was beyond Charles.\nWas the Common Prayer the English Mass, or the Communion-service, or the\nLitany, or the sermon, or any part of these? or were Bateman's words\nreally a confession that there were clergymen who actually said the\nPopish Mass once a week? Bateman's precise meaning, however, is lost to\nposterity; for they had by this time arrived at the door of the chapel.\nIt had once been the chapel of an almshouse; a small farmhouse stood\nnear; but, for population, it was plain no \"church accommodation\" was\nwanted. Before entering, Charles hung back, and whispered to his friend\nthat he did not know Bateman. An introduction, in consequence, took\nplace. \"Reding of St. Saviour's--Bateman of Nun's Hall;\" after which\nceremony, in place of holy water, they managed to enter the chapel in\ncompany.\n\nIt was as pretty a building as Bateman had led them to expect, and very\nprettily done up. There was a stone altar in the best style, a credence\ntable, a piscina, what looked like a tabernacle, and a couple of\nhandsome brass candlesticks. Charles asked the use of the piscina--he\ndid not know its name--and was told that there was always a piscina in\nthe old churches in England, and that there could be no proper\nrestoration without it. Next he asked the meaning of the beautifully\nwrought closet or recess above the altar; and received for answer, that\n\"our sister churches of the Roman obedience always had a tabernacle for\nreserving the consecrated bread.\" Here Charles was brought to a stand:\non which Sheffield asked the use of the niches; and was told by Bateman\nthat images of saints were forbidden by the canon, but that his friends,\nin all these matters, did what they could. Lastly, he asked the meaning\nof the candlesticks; and was told that, Catholicly-minded as their\nBishop was, they had some fear lest he would object to altar lights in\nservice--at least at first: but it was plain that the _use_ of the\ncandlesticks was to hold candles. Having had their fill of gazing and\nadmiring, they turned to proceed on their walk, but could not get off an\ninvitation to breakfast, in a few days, at Bateman's lodgings in the\nTurl.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nNeither of the friends had what are called _views_ in religion; by which\nexpression we do not here signify that neither had taken up a certain\nline of opinion, though this was the case also; but that neither of\nthem--how could they at their age?--had placed his religion on an\nintellectual basis. It may be as well to state more distinctly what a\n\"view\" is, what it is to be \"viewy,\" and what is the state of those who\nhave no \"views.\" When, then; men for the first time look upon the world\nof politics or religion, all that they find there meets their mind's eye\nas a landscape addresses itself for the first time to a person who has\njust gained his bodily sight. One thing is as far off as another; there\nis no perspective. The connection of fact with fact, truth with truth,\nthe bearing of fact upon truth, and truth upon fact, what leads to what,\nwhat are points primary and what secondary,--all this they have yet to\nlearn. It is all a new science to them, and they do not even know their\nignorance of it. Moreover, the world of to-day has no connection in\ntheir minds with the world of yesterday; time is not a stream, but\nstands before them round and full, like the moon. They do not know what\nhappened ten years ago, much less the annals of a century; the past does\nnot live to them in the present; they do not understand the worth of\ncontested points; names have no associations for them, and persons\nkindle no recollections. They hear of men, and things, and projects, and\nstruggles, and principles; but everything comes and goes like the wind,\nnothing makes an impression, nothing penetrates, nothing has its place\nin their minds. They locate nothing; they have no system. They hear and\nthey forget; or they just recollect what they have once heard, they\ncan't tell where. Thus they have no consistency in their arguments; that\nis, they argue one way to-day, and not exactly the other way to-morrow,\nbut indirectly the other way, at random. Their lines of argument\ndiverge; nothing comes to a point; there is no one centre in which their\nmind sits, on which their judgment of men and things proceeds. This is\nthe state of many men all through life; and miserable politicians or\nChurchmen they make, unless by good luck they are in safe hands, and\nruled by others, or are pledged to a course. Else they are at the mercy\nof the winds and waves; and, without being Radical, Whig, Tory, or\nConservative, High Church or Low Church, they do Whig acts, Tory acts,\nCatholic acts, and heretical acts, as the fit takes them, or as events\nor parties drive them. And sometimes, when their self-importance is\nhurt, they take refuge in the idea that all this is a proof that they\nare unfettered, moderate, dispassionate, that they observe the mean,\nthat they are \"no party men;\" when they are, in fact, the most helpless\nof slaves; for our strength in this world is, to be the subjects of the\nreason, and our liberty, to be captives of the truth.\n\nNow Charles Reding, a youth of twenty, could not be supposed to have\nmuch of a view in religion or politics; but no clever man allows himself\nto judge of things simply at hap-hazard; he is obliged, from a sort of\nself-respect, to have some rule or other, true or false; and Charles was\nvery fond of the maxim, which he has already enunciated, that we must\nmeasure people by what they are, and not by what they are not. He had a\ngreat notion of loving every one--of looking kindly on every one; he was\npierced with the sentiment which he had seen in a popular volume of\npoetry, that--\n\n              \"Christian souls, ...\n    Though worn and soil'd with sinful clay,\n    Are yet, to eyes that see them true,\n    All glistening with baptismal dew.\"\n\nHe liked, as he walked along the road, and met labourer or horseman,\ngentleman or beggar, to say to himself, \"He is a Christian.\" And when he\ncame to Oxford, he came there with an enthusiasm so simple and warm as\nto be almost childish. He reverenced even the velvet of the Pro.; nay,\nthe cocked hat which preceded the Preacher had its claim on his\ndeferential regard. Without being himself a poet, he was in the season\nof poetry, in the sweet spring-time, when the year is most beautiful,\nbecause it is new. Novelty was beauty to a heart so open and cheerful as\nhis; not only because it was novelty, and had its proper charm as such,\nbut because when we first see things, we see them in a \"gay confusion,\"\nwhich is a principal element of the poetical. As time goes on, and we\nnumber and sort and measure things--as we gain views--we advance towards\nphilosophy and truth, but we recede from poetry.\n\nWhen we ourselves were young, we once on a time walked on a hot\nsummer-day from Oxford to Newington--a dull road, as any one who has\ngone it knows; yet it was new to us; and we protest to you, reader,\nbelieve it or not, laugh or not, as you will, to us it seemed on that\noccasion quite touchingly beautiful; and a soft melancholy came over us,\nof which the shadows fall even now, when we look back on that dusty,\nweary journey. And why? because every object which met us was unknown\nand full of mystery. A tree or two in the distance seemed the beginning\nof a great wood, or park, stretching endlessly; a hill implied a vale\nbeyond, with that vale's history; the bye-lanes, with their green\nhedges, wound and vanished, yet were not lost to the imagination. Such\nwas our first journey; but when we had gone it several times, the mind\nrefused to act, the scene ceased to enchant, stern reality alone\nremained; and we thought it one of the most tiresome, odious roads we\never had occasion to traverse.\n\nBut to return to our story. Such was Reding. But Sheffield, on the other\nhand, without possessing any real view of things more than Charles, was,\nat this time, fonder of hunting for views, and more in danger of taking\nup false ones. That is, he was \"viewy,\" in a bad sense of the word. He\nwas not satisfied intellectually with things as they are; he was\ncritical, impatient to reduce things to system, pushed principles too\nfar, was fond of argument, partly from pleasure in the exercise, partly\nbecause he was perplexed, though he did not lay anything very much to\nheart.\n\nThey neither of them felt any special interest in the controversy going\non in the University and country about High and Low Church. Sheffield\nhad a sort of contempt for it; and Reding felt it to be bad taste to be\nunusual or prominent in anything. An Eton acquaintance had asked him to\ngo and hear one of the principal preachers of the Catholic party, and\noffered to introduce him; but he had declined it. He did not like, he\nsaid, mixing himself up with party; he had come to Oxford to get his\ndegree, and not to take up opinions; he thought his father would not\nrelish it; and, moreover, he felt some little repugnance to such\nopinions and such people, under the notion that the authorities of the\nUniversity were opposed to the whole movement. He could not help looking\nat its leaders as demagogues; and towards demagogues he felt an\nunmeasured aversion and contempt. He did not see why clergymen, however\nrespectable, should be collecting undergraduates about them; and he\nheard stories of their way of going on which did not please him.\nMoreover, he did not like the specimens of their followers whom he fell\nin with; they were forward, or they \"talked strong,\" as it was called;\ndid ridiculous, extravagant acts; and sometimes neglected their college\nduties for things which did not concern them. He was unfortunate,\ncertainly: for this is a very unfair account of the most exemplary men\nof that day, who doubtless are still, as clergymen or laymen, the\nstrength of the Anglican Church; but in all collections of men, the\nstraw and rubbish (as Lord Bacon says) float on the top, while gold and\njewels sink and are hidden. Or, what is more apposite still, many men,\nor most men, are a compound of precious and worthless together, and\ntheir worthless swims, and their precious lies at the bottom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nBateman was one of these composite characters: he had much good and much\ncleverness in him; but he was absurd, and he afforded a subject of\nconversation to the two friends as they proceeded on their walk. \"I wish\nthere was less of fudge and humbug everywhere,\" said Sheffield; \"one\nmight shovel off cartloads from this place, and not miss it.\"\n\n\"If you had your way,\" answered Charles, \"you would scrape off the roads\ntill there was nothing to walk on. We are forced to walk on what you\ncall humbug; we put it under our feet, but we use it.\"\n\n\"I cannot think that; it's like doing evil that good may come. I see\nshams everywhere. I go into St. Mary's, and I hear men spouting out\ncommonplaces in a deep or a shrill voice, or with slow, clear, quiet\nemphasis and significant eyes--as that Bampton preacher not long ago,\nwho assured us, apropos of the resurrection of the body, that 'all\nattempts to resuscitate the inanimate corpse by natural methods had\nhitherto been experimentally abortive.' I go into the place where\ndegrees are given--the Convocation, I think--and there one hears a deal\nof unmeaning Latin for hours, graces, dispensations, and proctors\nwalking up and down for nothing; all in order to keep up a sort of ghost\nof things passed away for centuries, while the real work might be done\nin a quarter of an hour. I fall in with this Bateman, and he talks to me\nof rood-lofts without roods, and piscinae without water, and niches\nwithout images, and candlesticks without lights, and masses without\nPopery; till I feel, with Shakespeare, that 'all the world's a stage.'\nWell, I go to Shaw, Turner, and Brown, very different men, pupils of Dr.\nGloucester--you know whom I mean--and they tell us that we ought to put\nup crucifixes by the wayside, in order to excite religious feeling.\"\n\n\"Well, I really think you are hard on all these people,\" said Charles;\n\"it is all very much like declamation; you would destroy externals of\nevery kind. You are like the man in one of Miss Edgeworth's novels, who\nshut his ears to the music that he might laugh at the dancers.\"\n\n\"What is the music to which I close my ears?\" asked Sheffield.\n\n\"To the meaning of those various acts,\" answered Charles; \"the pious\nfeeling which accompanies the sight of the image is the music.\"\n\n\"To those who have the pious feeling, certainly,\" said Sheffield; \"but\nto put up images in England in order to create the feeling is like\ndancing to create music.\"\n\n\"I think you are hard upon England,\" replied Charles; \"we are a\nreligious people.\"\n\n\"Well, I will put it differently: do _you_ like music?\"\n\n\"You ought to know,\" said Charles, \"whom I have frightened so often with\nmy fiddle.\"\n\n\"Do you like dancing?\"\n\n\"To tell the truth,\" said Charles, \"I don't.\"\n\n\"Nor do I,\" said Sheffield; \"it makes me laugh to think what I have\ndone, when a boy, to escape dancing; there is something so absurd in it;\nand one had to be civil and to duck to young girls who were either prim\nor pert. I have behaved quite rudely to them sometimes, and then have\nbeen annoyed at my ungentlemanlikeness, and not known how to get out of\nthe scrape.\"\n\n\"Well, I didn't know we were so like each other in anything,\" said\nCharles; \"oh, the misery I have endured, in having to stand up to dance,\nand to walk about with a partner!--everybody looking at me, and I so\nawkward. It has been a torture to me days before and after.\"\n\nThey had by this time come up to the foot of the rough rising ground\nwhich leads to the sort of table-land on the edge of which Oxley is\nplaced; and they stood still awhile to see some equestrians take the\nhurdles. They then mounted the hill, and looked back upon Oxford.\n\n\"Perhaps you call those beautiful spires and towers a sham,\" said\nCharles, \"because you see their tops and not their bottoms?\"\n\n\"Whereabouts were we in our argument?\" said the other, reminded that\nthey had been wandering from it for the last ten minutes. \"Oh, I\nrecollect; I know what I was at. I was saying that you liked music, but\ndidn't like dancing; music leads another person to dance, but not you;\nand dancing does not increase but diminishes the intensity of the\npleasure you find in music. In like manner, it is a mere piece of\npedantry to make a religious nation, like the English, more religious by\nplacing images in the streets; this is not the English way, and only\noffends us. If it were our way, it would come naturally without any one\ntelling us. As music incites to dancing, so religion would lead to\nimages; but as dancing does not improve music to those who do not like\ndancing, so ceremonies do not improve religion to those who do not like\nceremonies.\"\n\n\"Then do you mean,\" said Charles, \"that the English Romanists are shams,\nbecause they use crucifixes?\"\n\n\"Stop there,\" said Sheffield; \"now you are getting upon a different\nsubject. They believe that there is _virtue_ in images; that indeed is\nabsurd in them, but it makes them quite consistent in honouring them.\nThey do not put up images as outward shows, merely to create feelings in\nthe minds of beholders, as Gloucester would do, but they in good,\ndownright earnest worship images, as being more than they seem, as being\nnot a mere outside show. They pay them a religious worship, as having\nbeen handled by great saints years ago, as having been used in\npestilences, as having wrought miracles, as having moved their eyes or\nbowed their heads; or, at least, as having been blessed by the priest,\nand been brought into connection with invisible grace. This is\nsuperstitious, but it is real.\"\n\nCharles was not satisfied. \"An image is a mode of teaching,\" he said;\n\"do you mean to say that a person is a sham merely because he mistakes\nthe particular mode of teaching best suited to his own country?\"\n\n\"I did not say that Dr. Gloucester was a sham,\" answered Sheffield; \"but\nthat mode of teaching of his was among Protestants a sham and a humbug.\"\n\n\"But this principle will carry you too far, and destroy itself,\" said\nCharles. \"Don't you recollect what Thompson quoted the other day out of\nAristotle, which he had lately begun in lecture with Vincent, and which\nwe thought so acute--that habits are created by those very acts in which\nthey manifest themselves when created? We learn to swim well by trying\nto swim. Now Bateman, doubtless, wishes to _introduce_ piscinae and\ntabernacles; and to wait, before beginning, _till_ they are received, is\nlike not going into the water till you can swim.\"\n\n\"Well, but what is Bateman the better when his piscinae are universal?\"\nasked Sheffield; \"what does it _mean_? In the Romish Church it has a\nuse, I know--I don't know what--but it comes into the Mass. But if\nBateman makes piscinae universal among us, what has he achieved but the\nreign of a universal humbug?\"\n\n\"But, my dear Sheffield,\" answered Reding, \"consider how many things\nthere are which, in the course of time, have altered their original\nmeaning, and yet have a meaning, though a changed one, still. The\njudge's wig is no sham, yet it has a history. The Queen, at her\ncoronation, is said to wear a Roman Catholic vestment, is that a sham?\nDoes it not still typify and impress upon us the 'divinity that doth\nhedge a king,' though it has lost the very meaning which the Church of\nRome gave it? Or are you of the number of those, who, according to the\nwitticism, think majesty, when deprived of its externals, a jest?\"\n\n\"Then you defend the introduction of unmeaning piscinae and\ncandlesticks?\"\n\n\"I think,\" answered Charles, \"that there's a great difference between\nreviving and retaining; it may be natural to retain, even while the use\nfails, unnatural to revive when it has failed; but this is a question of\ndiscretion and judgment.\"\n\n\"Then you give it against Bateman?\" said Sheffield.\n\nA slight pause ensued; then Charles added, \"But perhaps these men\nactually do wish to introduce the realities as well as the externals:\nperhaps they wish to use the piscina as well as to have it ...\nSheffield,\" he continued abruptly, \"why are not canonicals a sham, if\npiscinae are shams?\"\n\n\"Canonicals,\" said Sheffield, as if thinking about them; \"no, canonicals\nare no sham; for preaching, I suppose, is the highest ordinance in our\nChurch, and has the richest dress. The robes of a great preacher cost, I\nknow, many pounds; for there was one near us who, on leaving, had a\npresent from the ladies of an entire set, and a dozen pair of worked\nslippers into the bargain. But it's all fitting, if preaching is the\ngreat office of the clergy. Next comes the Sacrament, and has the\nsurplice and hood. And hood,\" he repeated, musing; \"what's that for? no,\nit's the scarf. The hood is worn in the University pulpit; what is the\nscarf?--it belongs to chaplains, I believe, that is, to _persons_; I\ncan't make a view out of it.\"\n\n\"My dear Sheffield,\" said Charles, \"you have cut your own throat. Here\nyou have been trying to give a sense to the clerical dress, and cannot;\nare you then prepared to call it a sham? Answer me this single\nquestion--Why does a clergyman wear a surplice when he reads prayers?\nNay, I will put it more simply--Why can only a clergyman read prayers in\nchurch?--Why cannot I?\"\n\nSheffield hesitated, and looked serious. \"Do you know,\" he said, \"you\nhave just pitched on Jeremy Bentham's objection. In his 'Church of\nEnglandism' he proposes, if I recollect rightly, that a parish-boy\nshould be taught to read the Liturgy; and he asks, Why send a person to\nthe University for three or four years at an enormous expense, why teach\nhim Latin and Greek, on purpose to read what any boy could be taught to\nread at a dame's school? What is the _virtue_ of a clergyman's reading?\nSomething of this kind, Bentham says; and,\" he added, slowly, \"to tell\nthe truth, _I_ don't know how to answer him.\"\n\nReding was surprised, and shocked, and puzzled too; he did not know what\nto say; when the conversation was, perhaps fortunately, interrupted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nEvery year brings changes and reforms. We do not know what is the state\nof Oxley Church now; it may have rood-loft, piscina, sedilia, all new;\nor it may be reformed backwards, the seats on principle turning from the\nCommunion-table, and the pulpit planted in the middle of the aisle; but\nat the time when these two young men walked through the churchyard,\nthere was nothing very good or very bad to attract them within the\nbuilding; and they were passing on, when they observed, coming out of\nthe church, what Sheffield called an elderly don, a fellow of a college,\nwhom Charles knew. He was a man of family, and had some little property\nof his own, had been a contemporary of his father's at the University,\nand had from time to time been a guest at the parsonage. Charles had, in\nconsequence, known him from a boy; and now, since he came into\nresidence, he had, as was natural, received many small attentions from\nhim. Once, when he was late for his own hall, he had given him his\ndinner in his rooms; he had taken him out on a fishing expedition\ntowards Faringdon; and had promised him tickets for some ladies,\nlionesses of his, who were coming up to the Commemoration. He was a\nshrewd, easy-tempered, free-spoken man, of small desires and no\nambition; of no very keen sensibilities or romantic delicacies, and very\nlittle religious pretension; that is, though unexceptionable in his\ndeportment, he hated the show of religion, and was impatient at those\nwho affected it. He had known the University for thirty years, and\nformed a right estimate of most things in it. He had come out to Oxley\nto take a funeral for a friend, and was now returning home. He hallooed\nto Charles, who, though feeling at first awkward on finding himself with\ntwo such different friends and in two such different relations, was,\nafter a time, partially restored to himself by the unconcern of Mr.\nMalcolm; and the three walked home together. Yet, even to the last, he\ndid not quite know how and where to walk, and how to carry himself,\nparticularly when they got near Oxford, and he fell in with various\nparties who greeted him in passing.\n\nCharles, by way of remark, said they had been looking in at a pretty\nlittle chapel on the common, which was now in the course of repair. Mr.\nMalcolm laughed. \"So, Charles,\" he said, \"_you're_ bit with the new\nfashion.\"\n\nCharles coloured, and asked, \"What fashion?\" adding, that a friend, by\naccident, had taken them in.\n\n\"You ask what fashion,\" said Mr. Malcolm; \"why, the newest, latest\nfashion. This is a place of fashions; there have been many fashions in\nmy time. The greater part of the residents, that is, the boys, change\nonce in three years; the fellows and tutors, perhaps, in half a dozen;\nand every generation has its own fashion. There is no principle of\nstability in Oxford, except the Heads, and they are always the same,\nand always will be the same to the end of the chapter. What is in now,\"\nhe asked, \"among you youngsters--drinking or cigars?\"\n\nCharles laughed modestly, and said he hoped drinking had gone out\neverywhere.\n\n\"Worse things may come in,\" said Mr. Malcolm; \"but there are fashions\neverywhere. There was once a spouting club, perhaps it is in favour\nstill; before it was the music-room. Once geology was all the rage; now\nit is theology; soon it will be architecture, or medieval antiquities,\nor editions and codices. Each wears out in its turn; all depends on one\nor two active men; but the secretary takes a wife, or the professor gets\na stall; and then the meetings are called irregularly, and nothing is\ndone in them, and so gradually the affair dwindles and dies.\"\n\nSheffield asked whether the present movement had not spread too widely\nthrough the country for such a termination; he did not know much about\nit himself, but the papers were full of it, and it was the talk of every\nneighbourhood; it was not confined to Oxford.\n\n\"I don't know about the country,\" said Mr. Malcolm, \"that is a large\nquestion; but it has not the elements of stability here. These gentlemen\nwill take livings and marry, and that will be the end of the business. I\nam not speaking against them; they are, I believe, very respectable men;\nbut they are riding on the spring-tide of a fashion.\"\n\nCharles said it was a nuisance to see the party-spirit it introduced.\nOxford ought to be a place of quiet and study; peace and the Muses\nalways went together; whereas there was talk, talk, in every quarter. A\nman could not go about his duties in a natural way, and take every one\nas he came, but was obliged to take part in questions, and to consider\npoints which he might wish to put from him, and must sport an opinion\nwhen he really had none to give.\n\nMr. Malcolm assented in a half-absent way, looking at the view before\nhim, and seemingly enjoying it. \"People call this county ugly,\" said he,\n\"and perhaps it is; but whether I am used to it or no, I always am\npleased with it. The lights are always new; and thus the landscape, if\nit deserves the name, is always presented in a new dress. I have known\nShotover there take the most opposite hues, sometimes purple, sometimes\na bright saffron or tawny orange.\" Here he stopped: \"Yes, you speak of\nparty-spirit; very true, there's a good deal of it.... No, I don't think\nthere's much,\" he continued, rousing; \"certainly there is more division\njust at this minute in Oxford, but there always is division, always\nrivalry. The separate societies have their own interests and honour to\nmaintain, and quarrel, as the orders do in the Church of Rome. No,\nthat's too grand a comparison; rather, Oxford is like an almshouse for\nclergymen's widows. Self-importance, jealousy, tittle-tattle are the\norder of the day. It has always been so in my time. Two great ladies,\nMrs. Vice-Chancellor and Mrs. Divinity-Professor, can't agree, and have\nfollowings respectively: or Vice-Chancellor himself, being a new broom,\nsweeps all the young Masters clean out of Convocation House, to their\ngreat indignation: or Mr. Slaney, Dean of St. Peter's, does not scruple\nto say in a stage-coach that Mr. Wood is no scholar; on which the said\nWood calls him in return 'slanderous Slaney;' or the elderly Mr. Barge,\nlate Senior Fellow of St. Michael's, thinks that his pretty bride has\nnot been received with due honours; or Dr. Crotchet is for years kept\nout of his destined bishopric by a sinister influence; or Mr. Professor\nCarraway has been infamously shown up, in the _Edinburgh_, by an idle\nfellow whom he plucked in the schools; or (_majora movemus_) three\ncolleges interchange a mortal vow of opposition to a fourth; or the\nyoung working Masters conspire against the Heads. Now, however, we are\nimproving; if we must quarrel, let it be the rivalry of intellect and\nconscience, rather than of interest or temper; let us contend for\nthings, not for shadows.\"\n\nSheffield was pleased at this, and ventured to say that the present\nstate of things was more real, and therefore more healthy. Mr. Malcolm\ndid not seem to hear him, for he did not reply; and, as they were now\napproaching the bridge again, the conversation stopped. Sheffield looked\nslily at Charles, as Mr. Malcolm proceeded with them up High Street; and\nboth of them had the triumph and the amusement of being convoyed safely\npast a proctor, who was patrolling it, under the protection of a\nMaster.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nThe walk to Oxley had not been the first or the second occasion on which\nCharles had, in one shape or other, encountered Sheffield's views about\nrealities and shams; and his preachments had begun to make an impression\non him; that is, he felt that there was truth in them at bottom, and a\ntruth new to him. He was not a person to let a truth sleep in his mind;\nthough it did not vegetate very quickly, it was sure ultimately to be\npursued into its consequences, and to affect his existing opinions. In\nthe instance before us, he saw Sheffield's principle was more or less\nantagonistic to his own favourite maxim, that it was a duty to be\npleased with every one. Contradictions could not both be real: when an\naffirmative was true, a negative was false. All doctrines could not be\nequally sound: there was a right and a wrong. The theory of dogmatic\ntruth, as opposed to latitudinarianism (he did not know their names or\ntheir history, or suspect what was going on within him), had in the\ncourse of these his first terms, gradually begun to energise in his\nmind. Let him but see the absurdities of the latitudinarian principle,\nwhen carried out, and he is likely to be still more opposed to it.\n\nBateman, among his peculiarities, had a notion that bringing persons of\ncontrary sentiments together was the likeliest way of making a party\nagreeable, or at least useful. He had done his best to give his\nbreakfast, to which our friends were invited, this element of\nperfection; not, however, to his own satisfaction; for with all his\nefforts, he had but picked up Mr. Freeborn, a young Evangelical Master,\nwith whom Sheffield was acquainted; a sharp, but not very wise freshman,\nwho, having been spoiled at home, and having plenty of money, professed\nto be _aesthetic_, and kept his college authorities in a perpetual fidget\nlest he should some morning wake up a Papist; and a friend of his, a\nnice, modest-looking youth, who, like a mouse, had keen darting eyes,\nand ate his bread and butter in absolute silence.\n\nThey had hardly seated themselves, and Sheffield was pouring out coffee,\nand a plate of muffins was going round, and Bateman was engaged,\nsaucepan in hand, in the operation of landing his eggs, now boiled, upon\nthe table, when our flighty youth, whose name was White, observed how\nbeautiful the Catholic custom was of making eggs the emblem of the\nEaster-festival. \"It is truly Catholic,\" said he; \"for it is retained in\nparts of England, you have it in Russia, and in Rome itself, where an\negg is served up on every plate through the Easter-week, after being, I\nbelieve, blessed; and it is as expressive and significant as it is\nCatholic.\"\n\n\"Beautiful indeed!\" said their host; \"so pretty, so sweet; I wonder\nwhether our Reformers thought of it, or the profound Hooker,--he was\nfull of types--or Jewell. You recollect the staff Jewell gave Hooker:\nthat was a type. It was like the sending of Elisha's staff by his\nservant to the dead child.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear, dear Bateman,\" cried Sheffield, \"you are making Hooker\nGehazi!\"\n\n\"That's just the upshot of such trifling,\" said Mr. Freeborn; \"you never\nknow where to find it; it proves anything, and disproves anything.\"\n\n\"That is only till it's sanctioned,\" said White; \"When the Catholic\nChurch sanctions it, we're safe.\"\n\n\"Yes, we're safe,\" said Bateman; \"it's safe when it's Catholic.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" continued White, \"things change their nature altogether when they\nare taken up by the Catholic Church: that's how we are allowed to do\nevil that good may come.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" said Bateman.\n\n\"Why,\" said White, \"the Church makes evil good.\"\n\n\"My dear White,\" said Bateman gravely, \"that's going too far; it is\nindeed.\"\n\nMr. Freeborn suspended his breakfast operations, and sat back in his\nchair.\n\n\"Why,\" continued White, \"is not idolatry wrong--yet image-worship is\nright?\"\n\nMr. Freeborn was in a state of collapse.\n\n\"That's a bad instance, White,\" said Sheffield; \"there _are_ people in\nthe world who are uncatholic enough to think image-worship is wrong, as\nwell as idolatry.\"\n\n\"A mere Jesuitical distinction,\" said Freeborn with emotion.\n\n\"Well,\" said White, who did not seem in great awe of the young M.A.,\nthough some years, of course, his senior, \"I will take a better\ninstance: who does not know that baptism gives grace? yet there were\nheathen baptismal rites, which, of course, were devilish.\"\n\n\"I should not be disposed, Mr. White, to grant you so much as you would\nwish,\" said Freeborn, \"about the virtue of baptism.\"\n\n\"Not about Christian baptism?\" asked White.\n\n\"It is easy,\" answered Freeborn, \"to mistake the sign for the thing\nsignified.\"\n\n\"Not about Catholic baptism?\" repeated White.\n\n\"Catholic baptism is a mere deceit and delusion,\" retorted Mr. Freeborn.\n\n\"Oh, my dear Freeborn,\" interposed Bateman, \"now _you_ are going too\nfar; you are indeed.\"\n\n\"Catholic, Catholic--I don't know what you mean,\" said Freeborn.\n\n\"I mean,\" said White, \"the baptism of the one Catholic Church of which\nthe Creed speaks: it's quite intelligible.\"\n\n\"But what do you mean by the Catholic Church?\" asked Freeborn.\n\n\"The Anglican,\" answered Bateman.\n\n\"The Roman,\" answered White; both in the same breath.\n\nThere was a general laugh.\n\n\"There is nothing to laugh at,\" said Bateman; \"Anglican and Roman are\none.\"\n\n\"One! impossible,\" cried Sheffield.\n\n\"Much worse than impossible,\" observed Mr. Freeborn.\n\n\"I should make a distinction,\" said Bateman: \"I should say, they are\none, except the corruptions of the Romish Church.\"\n\n\"That is, they are one, except where they differ,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Precisely so,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"Rather, _I_ should say,\" objected Mr. Freeborn, \"two, except where they\nagree.\"\n\n\"That's just the issue,\" said Sheffield; \"Bateman says that the Churches\nare one except when they are two; and Freeborn says that they are two\nexcept when they are one.\"\n\nIt was a relief at this moment that the cook's boy came in with a dish\nof hot sausages; but though a relief, it was not a diversion; the\nconversation proceeded. Two persons did not like it; Freeborn, who was\nsimply disgusted at the doctrine, and Reding, who thought it a bore; yet\nit was the bad luck of Freeborn forthwith to set Charles against him, as\nwell as the rest, and to remove the repugnance which he had to engage in\nthe dispute. Freeborn, in fact, thought theology itself a mistake, as\nsubstituting, as he considered, worthless intellectual notions for the\nvital truths of religion; so he now went on to observe, putting down his\nknife and fork, that it really was to him inconceivable, that real\nreligion should depend on metaphysical distinctions, or outward\nobservances; that it was quite a different thing in Scripture; that\nScripture said much of faith and holiness, but hardly a word about\nChurches and forms. He proceeded to say that it was the great and evil\ntendency of the human mind to interpose between itself and its Creator\nsome self-invented mediator, and it did not matter at all whether that\nhuman device was a rite, or a creed, or a form of prayer, or good works,\nor communion with particular Churches--all were but \"flattering unctions\nto the soul,\" if they were considered necessary; the only safe way of\nusing them was to use them with the feeling that you might dispense with\nthem; that none of them went to the root of the matter, for that faith,\nthat is, firm belief that God had forgiven you, was the one thing\nneedful; that where that one thing was present, everything else was\nsuperfluous; that where it was wanting, nothing else availed. So\nstrongly did he hold this, that (he confessed he put it pointedly, but\nstill not untruly), where true faith was present, a person might be\nanything in profession; an Arminian, a Calvinist, an Episcopalian, a\nPresbyterian, a Swedenborgian--nay, a Unitarian--he would go further,\nlooking at White, a Papist, yet be in a state of salvation.\n\nFreeborn came out rather more strongly than in his sober moments he\nwould have approved; but he was a little irritated, and wished to have\nhis turn of speaking. It was altogether a great testification.\n\n\"Thank you for your liberality to the poor Papists,\" said White; \"it\nseems they are safe if they are hypocrites, professing to be Catholics,\nwhile they are Protestants in heart.\"\n\n\"Unitarians, too,\" said Sheffield, \"are debtors to your liberality; it\nseems a man need not fear to believe too little, so that he feels a good\ndeal.\"\n\n\"Rather,\" said White, \"if he believes himself forgiven, he need not\nbelieve anything else.\"\n\nReding put in his word; he said that in the Prayer Book, belief in the\nHoly Trinity was represented, not as an accident, but as \"before all\nthings\" necessary to salvation.\n\n\"That's not a fair answer, Reding,\" said Sheffield; \"what Mr. Freeborn\nobserved was, that there's no creed in the Bible; and you answer that\nthere is a creed in the Prayer Book.\"\n\n\"Then the Bible says one thing, and the Prayer Book another,\" said\nBateman.\n\n\"No,\" answered Freeborn; \"The Prayer Book only _deduces_ from Scripture;\nthe Athanasian Creed is a human invention; true, but human, and to be\nreceived, as one of the Articles expressly says, because 'founded on\nScripture.' Creeds are useful in their place, so is the Church; but\nneither Creed nor Church is religion.\"\n\n\"Then why do you make so much of your doctrine of 'faith only'?\" said\nBateman; \"for that is not in Scripture, and is but a human deduction.\"\n\n\"_My_ doctrine!\" cried Freeborn; \"why it's in the Articles; the Articles\nexpressly say that we are justified by faith only.\"\n\n\"The Articles are not Scripture any more than the Prayer Book,\" said\nSheffield.\n\n\"Nor do the Articles say that the doctrine they propound is necessary\nfor salvation,\" added Bateman.\n\nAll this was very unfair on Freeborn, though he had provoked it. Here\nwere four persons on him at once, and the silent fifth apparently a\nsympathiser. Sheffield talked through malice; White from habit; Reding\ncame in because he could not help it; and Bateman spoke on principle; he\nhad a notion that he was improving Freeborn's views by this process of\nbadgering. At least he did not improve his temper, which was suffering.\nMost of the party were undergraduates; he (Freeborn) was a Master; it\nwas too bad of Bateman. He finished in silence his sausage, which had\ngot quite cold. The conversation flagged; there was a rise in toast and\nmuffins; coffee-cups were put aside, and tea flowed freely.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nFreeborn did not like to be beaten; he began again. Religion, he said,\nwas a matter of the heart; no one could interpret Scripture rightly\nwhose heart was not right. Till our eyes were enlightened, to dispute\nabout the sense of Scripture, to attempt to deduce from Scripture, was\nbeating about the bush: it was like the blind disputing about colours.\n\n\"If this is true,\" said Bateman, \"no one ought to argue about religion\nat all; but you were the first to do so, Freeborn.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" answered Freeborn, \"those who have _found_ the truth are\nthe very persons to argue, for they have the gift.\"\n\n\"And the very last persons to persuade,\" said Sheffield; \"for they have\nthe gift all to themselves.\"\n\n\"Therefore true Christians should argue with each other, and with no one\nelse,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"But those are the very persons who don't want it,\" said Sheffield;\n\"reasoning must be for the unconverted, not for the converted. It is the\nmeans of seeking.\"\n\nFreeborn persisted that the reason of the unconverted was carnal, and\nthat such could not understand Scripture.\n\n\"I have always thought,\" said Reding, \"that reason was a general gift,\nthough faith is a special and personal one. If faith is really rational,\nall ought to see that it is rational; else, from the nature of the case,\nit is not rational.\"\n\n\"But St. Paul says,\" answered Freeborn, \"that 'to the natural man the\nthings of the Spirit are foolishness.'\"\n\n\"But how are we to arrive at truth at all,\" said Reding, \"except by\nreason? It is the appointed method for our guidance. Brutes go by\ninstinct, men by reason.\"\n\nThey had fallen on a difficult subject; all were somewhat puzzled except\nWhite, who had not been attending, and was simply wearied; he now\ninterposed. \"It would be a dull world,\" he said, \"if men went by reason:\nthey may think they do, but they don't. Really, they are led by their\nfeelings, their affections, by the sense of the beautiful, and the good,\nand the holy. Religion is the beautiful; the clouds, sun, and sky, the\nfields and the woods, are religion.\"\n\n\"This would make all religions true,\" said Freeborn, \"good and bad.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered White, \"heathen rites are bloody and impure, not\nbeautiful; and Mahometanism is as cold and as dry as any Calvinistic\nmeeting. The Mahometans have no altars or priests, nothing but a pulpit\nand a preacher.\"\n\n\"Like St. Mary's,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Very like,\" said White; \"we have no life or poetry in the Church of\nEngland; the Catholic Church alone is beautiful. You would see what I\nmean if you went into a foreign cathedral, or even into one of the\nCatholic churches in our large towns. The celebrant, deacon, and\nsubdeacon, acolytes with lights, the incense, and the chanting--all\ncombine to one end, one act of worship. You feel it _is_ really a\nworshipping; every sense, eyes, ears, smell, are made to know that\nworship is going on. The laity on the floor saying their beads, or\nmaking their acts; the choir singing out the _Kyrie_; and the priest and\nhis assistants bowing low, and saying the _Confiteor_ to each other.\nThis is worship, and it is far above reason.\"\n\nThis was spoken with all his heart; but it was quite out of keeping with\nthe conversation which had preceded it, and White's poetry was almost as\ndisagreeable to the party as Freeborn's prose.\n\n\"White, you should turn Catholic out and out,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"My dear good fellow,\" said Bateman, \"think what you are saying. You\ncan't really have gone to a schismatical chapel. Oh, for shame!\"\n\nFreeborn observed, gravely, that if the two Churches _were_ one, as had\nbeen maintained, he could not see, do what he would, why it was wrong to\ngo to and fro from one to the other.\n\n\"You forget,\" said Bateman to White, \"you have, or might have, all this\nin your own Church, without the Romish corruptions.\"\n\n\"As to the Romish corruptions,\" answered White, \"I know very little\nabout them.\"\n\nFreeborn groaned audibly.\n\n\"I know very little about them,\" repeated White eagerly, \"very little;\nbut what is that to the purpose? We must take things as we find them. I\ndon't like what is bad in the Catholic Church, if there is bad, but what\nis good. I do not go to it for what is bad, but for what is good. You\ncan't deny that what I admire is very good and beautiful. Only you try\nto introduce it into your own Church. You would give your ears, you know\nyou would, to hear the _Dies irae_.\"\n\nHere a general burst of laughter took place. White was an Irishman. It\nwas a happy interruption; the party rose up from table, and a tap at\nthat minute, which sounded at the door, succeeded in severing the thread\nof the conversation.\n\nIt was a printseller's man with a large book of plates.\n\n\"Well timed,\" said Bateman;--\"put them down, Baker: or rather give them\nto me;--I can take the opinion of you men on a point I have much at\nheart. You know I wanted you, Freeborn, to go with me to see my chapel;\nSheffield and Reding have looked into it. Well now, just see here.\"\n\nHe opened the portfolio; it contained views of the Campo Santo at Pisa.\nThe leaves were slowly turned over in silence, the spectators partly\nadmiring, partly not knowing what to think, partly wondering at what was\ncoming.\n\n\"What do you think my plan is?\" he continued. \"You twitted me,\nSheffield, because my chapel would be useless. Now I mean to get a\ncemetery attached to it; there is plenty of land; and then the chapel\nwill become a chantry. But now, what will you say if we have a copy of\nthese splendid medieval monuments round the burial-place, both sculpture\nand painting? Now, Sheffield, Mr. Critic, what do you say to that?\"\n\n\"A most admirable plan,\" said Sheffield, \"and quite removes my\nobjections.... A chantry! what is that? Don't they say Mass in it for\nthe dead?\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no, no,\" said Bateman, in fear of Freeborn; \"we'll have none of\nyour Popery. It will be a simple, guileless chapel, in which the Church\nService will be read.\"\n\nMeanwhile Sheffield was slowly turning over the plates. He stopped at\none. \"What will you do with that figure?\" he said, pointing to a\nMadonna.\n\n\"Oh, it will be best, most prudent, to leave it out; certainly,\ncertainly.\"\n\nSheffield soon began again: \"But look here, my good fellow, what do you\ndo with these saints and angels? do see, why here's a complete legend;\ndo you mean to have this? Here's a set of miracles, and a woman invoking\na saint in heaven.\"\n\nBateman looked cautiously at them, and did not answer. He would have\nshut the book, but Sheffield wished to see some more. Meanwhile he said,\n\"Oh yes, true, there _are_ some things; but I have an expedient for all\nthis; I mean to make it all allegorical. The Blessed Virgin shall be the\nChurch, and the saints shall be cardinal and other virtues; and as to\nthat saint's life, St. Ranieri's, it shall be a Catholic 'Pilgrim's\nProgress.'\"\n\n\"Good! then you must drop all these popes and bishops, copes and\nchalices,\" said Sheffield; \"and have their names written under the rest,\nthat people mayn't take them for saints and angels. Perhaps you had\nbetter have scrolls from their mouths, in old English. This St. Thomas\nis stout; make him say, 'I am Mr. Dreadnought,' or 'I am Giant Despair;'\nand, since this beautiful saint bears a sort of dish, make her 'Mrs.\nCreature Comfort.' But look here,\" he continued, \"a whole set of devils;\nare _these_ to be painted up?\"\n\nBateman attempted forcibly to shut the book; Sheffield went on: \"St.\nAnthony's temptations; what's this? Here's the fiend in the shape of a\ncat on a wine-barrel.\"\n\n\"Really, really,\" said Bateman, disgusted, and getting possession of it,\n\"you are quite offensive, quite. We will look at them when you are more\nserious.\"\n\nSheffield indeed was very provoking, and Bateman more good-humoured than\nmany persons would have been in his place. Meanwhile Freeborn, who had\nhad his gown in his hand the last two minutes, nodded to his host, and\ntook his departure by himself; and White and Willis soon followed in\ncompany.\n\n\"Really,\" said Bateman to Sheffield, when they were gone, \"you and\nWhite, each in his own way, are so very rash in your mode of speaking,\nand before other people, too. I wished to teach Freeborn a little good\nCatholicism, and you have spoilt all. I hoped something would have come\nout of this breakfast. But only think of White! it will all out.\nFreeborn will tell it to his set. It is very bad, very bad indeed. And\nyou, my friend, are not much better; never serious. What _could_ you\nmean by saying that our Church is not one with the Romish? It was giving\nFreeborn such an advantage.\"\n\nSheffield looked provokingly easy; and, leaning with his back against\nthe mantelpiece, and his coat-tail almost playing with the spout of the\nkettle, replied, \"You had a most awkward team to drive.\" Then he added,\nlooking sideways at him, with his head back, \"And why had you, O most\ncorrect of men, the audacity to say that the English Church and the\nRomish Church _were_ one?\"\n\n\"It must be so,\" answered Bateman; \"there is but one Church--the Creed\nsays so; would you make two?\"\n\n\"I don't speak of doctrine,\" said Sheffield, \"but of fact. I didn't mean\nto say that there _were_ two _Churches_; nor to deny that there was one\n_Church_. I but denied the fact, that what are evidently two bodies were\none body.\"\n\nBateman thought awhile; and Charles employed himself in scraping down\nthe soot from the back of the chimney with the poker. He did not wish to\nspeak, but he was not sorry to listen to such an argument.\n\n\"My good fellow,\" said Bateman, in a tone of instruction, \"you are\nmaking a distinction between a Church and a body which I don't quite\ncomprehend. You say that there are two bodies, and yet but one Church.\nIf so, the Church is not a body, but something abstract, a mere name, a\ngeneral idea; is _that_ your meaning? if so, you are an honest\nCalvinist.\"\n\n\"You are another,\" answered Sheffield; \"for if you make two visible\nChurches, English and Romish, to be one Church, that one Church must be\ninvisible, not visible. Thus, if I hold an abstract Church, you hold an\ninvisible one.\"\n\n\"I do not see that,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"Prove the two Churches to be one,\" said Sheffield, \"and then I'll prove\nsomething else.\"\n\n\"Some paradox?\" said Bateman.\n\n\"Of course,\" answered Sheffield, \"a huge one; but yours, not mine. Prove\nthe English and Romish Churches to be in any sense one, and I will prove\nby parallel arguments that in the same sense we and the Wesleyans are\none.\"\n\nThis was a fair challenge. Bateman, however, suddenly put on a demure\nlook, and was silent. \"We are on sacred subjects,\" he said at length in\na subdued tone, \"we are on very sacred subjects; we must be reverent,\"\nand he drew a very long face.\n\nSheffield laughed out, nor could Reding stand it. \"What is it?\" cried\nSheffield; \"don't be hard on me? What have I done? Where did the\nsacredness begin? I eat my words.\"\n\n\"Oh, he meant nothing,\" said Charles, \"indeed he did not; he's more\nserious than he seems; do answer him; I am interested.\"\n\n\"Really, I do wish to treat the subject gravely,\" said Sheffield; \"I\nwill begin again. I am very sorry, indeed I am. Let me put the objection\nmore reverently.\"\n\nBateman relaxed: \"My good Sheffield,\" he said, \"the thing is irreverent,\nnot the manner. It is irreverent to liken your holy mother to the\nWesleyan schismatics.\"\n\n\"I repent, I do indeed,\" said Sheffield; \"it was a wavering of faith; it\nwas very unseemly, I confess it. What can I say more? Look at me; won't\nthis do? But now tell me, do tell me, _how_ are we one body with the\nRomanists, yet the Wesleyans not one body with us?\"\n\nBateman looked at him, and was satisfied with the expression of his\nface. \"It's a strange question for you to ask,\" he said; \"I fancied you\nwere a sharper fellow. Don't you see that we have the apostolical\nsuccession as well as the Romanists?\"\n\n\"But Romanists say,\" answered Sheffield, \"that that is not enough for\nunity; that we ought to be in communion with the Pope.\"\n\n\"That's their mistake,\" answered Bateman.\n\n\"That's just what the Wesleyans say of us,\" retorted Sheffield, \"when we\nwon't acknowledge _their_ succession; they say it's our mistake.\"\n\n\"Their succession!\" cried Bateman; \"they have no succession.\"\n\n\"Yes, they have,\" said Sheffield; \"they have a ministerial succession.\"\n\n\"It isn't apostolical,\" answered Bateman.\n\n\"Yes, but it is evangelical, a succession of doctrine,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Doctrine! Evangelical!\" cried Bateman; \"whoever heard! that's not\nenough; doctrine is not enough without bishops.\"\n\n\"And succession is not enough without the Pope,\" answered Sheffield.\n\n\"They act against the bishops,\" said Bateman, not quite seeing whither\nhe was going.\n\n\"And we act against the Pope,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"We say that the Pope isn't necessary,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"And they say that bishops are not necessary,\" returned Sheffield.\n\nThey were out of breath, and paused to see where they stood. Presently\nBateman said, \"My good sir, this is a question of _fact_, not of\nargumentative cleverness. The question is, whether it is not _true_ that\nbishops are necessary to the notion of a Church, and whether it is not\n_false_ that Popes are necessary.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" cried Sheffield, \"the question is this, whether obedience to\nour bishops is not necessary to make Wesleyans one body with us, and\nobedience to their Pope necessary to make us one body with the\nRomanists. You maintain the one, and deny the other; I maintain both.\nMaintain both, or deny both: I am consistent; you are inconsistent.\"\n\nBateman was puzzled.\n\n\"In a word,\" Sheffield added, \"succession is not unity, any more than\ndoctrine.\"\n\n\"Not unity? What then is unity?\" asked Bateman.\n\n\"Oneness of polity,\" answered Sheffield.\n\nBateman thought awhile. \"The idea is preposterous,\" he said: \"here we\nhave _possession_; here we are established since King Lucius's time, or\nsince St. Paul preached here; filling the island; one continuous Church;\nwith the same territory, the same succession, the same hierarchy, the\nsame civil and political position, the same churches. Yes,\" he\nproceeded, \"we have the very same fabrics, the memorials of a thousand\nyears, doctrine stamped and perpetuated in stone; all the mystical\nteaching of the old saints. What have the Methodists to do with Catholic\nrites? with altars, with sacrifice, with rood-lofts, with fonts, with\nniches?--they call it all superstition.\"\n\n\"Don't be angry with me, Bateman,\" said Sheffield, \"and, before going, I\nwill put forth a parable. Here's the Church of England, as like a\nProtestant Establishment as it can stare; bishops and people, all but a\nfew like yourselves, call it Protestant; the living body calls itself\nProtestant; the living body abjures Catholicism, flings off the name and\nthe thing, hates the Church of Rome, laughs at sacramental power,\ndespises the Fathers, is jealous of priestcraft, is a Protestant\nreality, is a Catholic sham. This existing reality, which is alive and\nno mistake, you wish to top with a filagree-work of screens, dorsals,\npastoral staffs, croziers, mitres, and the like. Now most excellent\nBateman, will you hear my parable? will you be offended at it?\"\n\nSilence gave consent, and Sheffield proceeded.\n\n\"Why, once on a time a negro boy, when his master was away, stole into\nhis wardrobe, and determined to make himself fine at his master's\nexpense. So he was presently seen in the streets, naked as usual, but\nstrutting up and down with a cocked hat on his head, and a pair of white\nkid gloves on his hands.\"\n\n\"Away with you! get out, you graceless, hopeless fellow!\" said Bateman,\ndischarging the sofa-bolster at his head. Meanwhile Sheffield ran to the\ndoor, and quickly found himself with Charles in the street below.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nSheffield and Charles may go their way; but we must follow White and\nWillis out of Bateman's lodgings. It was a Saint's day, and they had no\nlectures; they walked arm-in-arm along Broad Street, evidently very\nintimate, and Willis found his voice: \"I can't bear that Freeborn,\" said\nhe, \"he's such a prig; and I like him the less because I am obliged to\nknow him.\"\n\n\"You knew him in the country, I think?\" said White.\n\n\"In consequence, he has several times had me to his spiritual\ntea-parties, and has introduced me to old Mr. Grimes, a good,\nkind-hearted old _fogie_, but an awful evangelical, and his wife worse.\nGrimes is the old original religious tea-man, and Freeborn imitates him.\nThey get together as many men as they can, perhaps twenty freshmen,\nbachelors, and masters, who sit in a circle, with cups and saucers in\ntheir hands and hassocks at their knees. Some insufferable person of\nCapel Hall or St. Mark's, who hardly speaks English, under pretence of\nasking Mr. Grimes some divinity question, holds forth on original sin,\nor justification, or assurance, monopolizing the conversation. Then\ntea-things go, and a portion of Scripture comes instead; and old Grimes\nexpounds; very good it is, doubtless, though he is a layman. He's a good\nold soul; but no one in the room can stand it; even Mrs. Grimes nods\nover her knitting, and some of the dear brothers breathe very audibly.\nMr. Grimes, however, hears nothing but himself. At length he stops; his\nhearers wake up, and the hassocks begin. Then we go; and Mr. Grimes and\nthe St. Mark's man call it a profitable evening. I can't make out why\nany one goes twice; yet some men never miss.\"\n\n\"They all go on faith,\" said White: \"faith in Mr. Grimes.\"\n\n\"Faith in old Grimes,\" said Willis; \"an old half-pay lieutenant!\"\n\n\"Here's a church open,\" said White; \"that's odd; let's go in.\"\n\nThey entered; an old woman was dusting the pews as if for service. \"That\nwill be all set right,\" said Willis; \"we must have no women, but\nsacristans and servers.\"\n\n\"Then, you know, all these pews will go to the right about. Did you ever\nsee a finer church for a function?\"\n\n\"Where would you put the sacristy?\" said Willis; \"that closet is meant\nfor the vestry, but would never be large enough.\"\n\n\"That depends on the number of altars the church admits,\" answered\nWhite; \"each altar must have its own dresser and wardrobe in the\nsacristy.\"\n\n\"One,\" said Willis, counting, \"where the pulpit stands, that'll be the\nhigh altar; one quite behind, that may be Our Lady's; two, one on each\nside of the chancel--four already; to whom do you dedicate them?\"\n\n\"The church is not wide enough for those side ones,\" objected White.\n\n\"Oh, but it is,\" said Willis; \"I have seen, abroad, altars with only one\nstep to them, and they need not be very broad. I think, too, this wall\nadmits of an arch--look at the depth of the window; _that_ would be a\ngain of room.\"\n\n\"No,\" persisted White; \"the chancel is too narrow;\" and he began to\nmeasure the floor with his pocket-handkerchief. \"What would you say is\nthe depth of an altar from the wall?\" he asked.\n\nOn looking up he saw some ladies in the church whom he and Willis\nknew--the pretty Miss Boltons--very Catholic girls, and really kind,\ncharitable persons into the bargain. We cannot add, that they were much\nwiser at that time than the two young gentlemen whom they now\nencountered; and if any fair reader thinks our account of them a\nreflection on Catholic-minded ladies generally, we beg distinctly to\nsay, that we by no means put them forth as a type of a class; that among\nsuch persons were to be found, as we know well, the gentlest spirits and\nthe tenderest hearts; and that nothing short of severe fidelity to\nhistorical truth keeps us from adorning these two young persons in\nparticular with that prudence and good sense with which so many such\nladies were endowed. These two sisters had open hands, if they had not\nwise heads; and their object in entering the church (which was not the\nchurch of their own parish) was to see the old woman, who was at once a\nsubject and instrument of their bounty, and to say a word about her\nlittle grandchildren, in whom they were interested. As may be supposed,\nthey did not know much of matters ecclesiastical, and they knew less of\nthemselves; and the latter defect White could not supply, though he was\ndoing, and had done, his best to remedy the former deficiency; and every\nmeeting did a little.\n\nThe two parties left the church together, and the gentlemen saw the\nladies home. \"We were imagining, Miss Bolton,\" White said, walking at a\nrespectful distance from her, \"we were imagining St. James's a Catholic\nchurch, and trying to arrange things as they ought to be.\"\n\n\"What was your first reform?\" asked Miss Bolton.\n\n\"I fear,\" answered White, \"it would fare hard with your _protegee_, the\nold lady who dusts out the pews.\"\n\n\"Why, certainly,\" said Miss Bolton, \"because there would be no pews to\ndust.\"\n\n\"But not only in office, but in person, or rather in character, she must\nmake her exit from the church,\" said White.\n\n\"Impossible,\" said Miss Bolton; \"are women, then, to remain\nProtestants?\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" answered White, \"the good lady will reappear, only in another\ncharacter; she will be a widow.\"\n\n\"And who will take her present place?\"\n\n\"A sacristan,\" answered White; \"a sacristan in a cotta. Do you like the\nshort cotta or the long?\" he continued, turning to the younger lady.\n\n\"I?\" answered Miss Charlotte; \"I always forget, but I think you told us\nthe Roman was the short one; I'm for the short cotta.\"\n\n\"You know, Charlotte,\" said Miss Bolton, \"that there's a great reform\ngoing on in England in ecclesiastical vestments.\"\n\n\"I hate all reforms,\" answered Charlotte, \"from the Reformation\ndownwards. Besides, we have got some way in our cope; you have seen it,\nMr. White? it's such a sweet pattern.\"\n\n\"Have you determined what to do with it?\" asked Willis.\n\n\"Time enough to think of that,\" said Charlotte; \"it'll take four years\nto finish.\"\n\n\"Four years!\" cried White; \"we shall be all real Catholics by then;\nEngland will be converted.\"\n\n\"It will be done just in time for the Bishop,\" said Charlotte.\n\n\"Oh, it's not good enough for him!\" said Miss Bolton; \"but it may do in\nchurch for the _Asperges_. How different all things will be!\" continued\nshe; \"I don't quite like, though, the idea of a cardinal in Oxford. Must\nwe be so very Roman? I don't see why we might not be quite Catholic\nwithout the Pope.\"\n\n\"Oh, you need not be afraid,\" said White sagely; \"things don't go so\napace. Cardinals are not so cheap.\"\n\n\"Cardinals have so much state and stiffness,\" said Miss Bolton: \"I hear\nthey never walk without two servants behind them; and they always leave\nthe room directly dancing begins.\"\n\n\"Well, I think Oxford must be just cut out for cardinals,\" said Miss\nCharlotte; \"can anything be duller than the President's parties? I can\nfancy Dr. Bone a cardinal, as he walks round the parks.\"\n\n\"Oh, it's the genius of the Catholic Church,\" said White; \"you will\nunderstand it better in time. No one is his own master; even the Pope\ncannot do as he will; he dines by himself, and speaks by precedent.\"\n\n\"Of course he does,\" said Charlotte, \"for he is infallible.\"\n\n\"Nay, if he makes mistakes in the functions,\" continued White, \"he is\nobliged to write them down and confess them, lest they should be drawn\ninto precedents.\"\n\n\"And he is obliged, during a function, to obey the master of ceremonies,\nagainst his own judgment,\" said Willis.\n\n\"Didn't you say the Pope confessed, Mr. White?\" asked Miss Bolton; \"it\nhas always puzzled me whether the Pope was obliged to confess like\nanother man.\"\n\n\"Oh, certainly,\" answered White, \"every one confesses.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charlotte, \"I can't fancy Mr. Hurst of St. Peter's, who\ncomes here to sing glees, confessing, or some of the grave heads of\nhouses, who bow so stiffly.\"\n\n\"They will all have to confess,\" said White.\n\n\"All?\" asked Miss Bolton; \"you don't mean converts confess? I thought it\nwas only old Catholics.\"\n\nThere was a little pause.\n\n\"And what will the heads of houses be?\" asked Miss Charlotte.\n\n\"Abbots or superiors,\" answered White; \"they will bear crosses; and when\nthey say Mass, there will be a lighted candle in addition.\"\n\n\"What a good portly abbot the Vice-Chancellor will make!\" said Miss\nBolton.\n\n\"Oh, no; he's too short for an abbot,\" said her sister; \"but you have\nleft out the Chancellor himself: you seem to have provided for every one\nelse; what will become of him?\"\n\n\"The Chancellor is my difficulty,\" said White gravely.\n\n\"Make him a Knight-Templar,\" said Willis.\n\n\"The Duke's a queer hand,\" said White, still thoughtfully: \"there's no\nknowing what he'll come to. A Knight-Templar--yes; Malta is now English\nproperty; he might revive the order.\"\n\nThe ladies both laughed.\n\n\"But you have not completed your plan, Mr. White,\" said Miss Bolton:\n\"the heads of houses have got wives; how can they become monks?\"\n\n\"Oh, the wives will go into convents,\" said White: \"Willis and I have\nbeen making inquiries in the High Street, and they are most\nsatisfactory. Some of the houses there were once university-halls and\ninns, and will easily turn back into convents: all that will be wanted\nis grating to the windows.\"\n\n\"Have you any notion what order they ought to join?\" said Miss\nCharlotte.\n\n\"That depends on themselves,\" said White: \"no compulsion whatever must\nbe put on them. _They_ are the judges. But it would be useful to have\ntwo convents--one of an active order, and one contemplative: Ursuline\nfor instance, and Carmelite of St. Theresa's reform.\"\n\nHitherto their conversation had been on the verge of jest and earnest;\nnow it took a more pensive tone.\n\n\"The nuns of St. Theresa are very strict, I believe, Mr. White,\" said\nMiss Bolton.\n\n\"Yes,\" he made reply; \"I have fears for the Mrs. Wardens and Mrs.\nPrincipals who at their age undertake it.\"\n\nThey had got home, and White politely rang the bell.\n\n\"Younger persons,\" said he tenderly, \"are too delicate for such a\nsacrifice.\"\n\nLouisa was silent; presently she said, \"And what will you be, Mr.\nWhite?\"\n\n\"I know not,\" he answered; \"I have thought of the Cistercians; they\nnever speak.\"\n\n\"Oh, the dear Cistercians!\" she said; \"St. Bernard wasn't it?--sweet,\nheavenly man, and so young! I have seen his picture: such eyes!\"\n\nWhite was a good-looking man. The nun and the monk looked at each other\nvery respectfully, and bowed; the other pair went through a similar\nceremony; then it was performed diagonally. The two ladies entered their\nhome; the two gentlemen retired.\n\nWe must follow the former upstairs. When they entered the drawing-room\nthey found their mother sitting at the window in her bonnet and shawl,\ndipping into a chance volume in that unsettled state which implies that\na person is occupied, if it may be so called, in waiting, more than in\nanything else.\n\n\"My dear children,\" she said as they entered, \"where _have_ you been?\nthe bells have stopped a good quarter of an hour: I fear we must give up\ngoing to church this morning.\"\n\n\"Impossible, dear mamma,\" answered Miss Bolton; \"we went out punctually\nat half-past nine; we did not stop two minutes at your worsted-shop; and\nhere we are back again.\"\n\n\"The only thing we did besides,\" said Charlotte, \"was to look in at St.\nJames's, as the door was open, to say a word or two to poor old Wiggins.\nMr. White was there, and his friend Mr. Willis; and they saw us home.\"\n\n\"Oh, I understand,\" answered Mrs. Bolton; \"that is the way when young\ngentlemen and ladies get together: but at any rate we are late for\nchurch.\"\n\n\"Oh, no,\" said Charlotte, \"let us set out directly, we shall get in by\nthe first lesson.\"\n\n\"My dear child, how can you propose such a thing?\" said her mother: \"I\nwould not do so for any consideration; it is so very disgraceful. Better\nnot go at all.\"\n\n\"Oh, dearest mamma,\" said the elder sister, \"this certainly _is_ a\nprejudice. Why always come in at one time? there is something so formal\nin people coming in all at once, and waiting for each other. It is\nsurely more reasonable to come in when you can: so many things may\nhinder persons.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Louisa,\" said her mother, \"I like the old way.\nIt used always to be said to us, Be in your seats before 'When the\nwicked man,' and at latest before the 'Dearly Beloved.' That's the good\nold-fashioned way. And Mr. Jones and Mr. Pearson used always to sit at\nleast five minutes in the desk to give us some law, and used to look\nround before beginning; and Mr. Jones used frequently to preach against\nlate comers. I can't argue, but it seems to me reasonable that good\nChristians should hear the whole service. They might as well go out\nbefore it's over.\"\n\n\"Well, but, mamma,\" said Charlotte, \"so it _is_ abroad: they come in and\ngo out when they please. It's so devotional.\"\n\n\"My dear girl,\" said Mrs. Bolton, \"I am too old to understand all this;\nit's beyond me. I suppose Mr. White has been saying all this to you.\nHe's a good young man, very amiable and attentive. I have nothing to say\nagainst him, except that he _is_ young, and he'll change his view of\nthings when he gets older.\"\n\n\"While we talk, time's going,\" said Louisa; \"is it quite impossible we\nshould still go to church?\"\n\n\"My dear Louisa, I would not walk up the aisle for the world; positively\nI should sink into the earth: such a bad example! How can you dream of\nsuch a thing?\"\n\n\"Then I suppose nothing's to be done,\" said Louisa, taking off her\nbonnet; \"but really it is very sad to make worship so cold and formal a\nthing. Twice as many people would go to church if they might be late.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear, all things are changed now: in my younger days Catholics\nwere the formal people, and we were the devotional; now it's just the\nreverse.\"\n\n\"But isn't it so, dear mamma?\" said Charlotte, \"isn't it something much\nmore beautiful, this continued concourse, flowing and ebbing, changing\nyet full, than a way of praying which is as wooden as the\nreading-desk?--it's so free and natural.\"\n\n\"Free and easy, _I_ think,\" said her mother; \"for shame, Charlotte! how\ncan you speak against the beautiful Church Service; you pain me.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" answered Charlotte; \"it's a mere puritanical custom, which is\nno more part of our Church than the pews are.\"\n\n\"Common Prayer is offered to all who can come,\" said Louisa; \"Church\nshould be a privilege, not a mere duty.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear love, this is more than I can follow. There was young\nGeorge Ashton--he always left before the sermon; and when taxed with it,\nhe said he could not bear an heretical preacher; a boy of eighteen!\"\n\n\"But, dearest mamma,\" said Charlotte, \"what _is_ to be done when a\npreacher is heretical? what else can be done?--it's so distressing to a\nCatholic mind.\"\n\n\"Catholic, Catholic!\" cried Mrs. Bolton, rather vexed; \"give me good old\nGeorge the Third and the Protestant religion. Those were the times!\nEverything went on quietly then. We had no disputes or divisions; no\ndifferences in families. But now it is all otherwise. My head is turned,\nI declare; I hear so many strange, out-of-the-way things.\"\n\nThe young ladies did not answer; one looked out of the window, the other\nprepared to leave the room.\n\n\"Well it's a disappointment to us all,\" said their mother; \"you first\nhindered me going, then I have hindered you. But I suspect, dear Louisa,\nmine is the greater disappointment of the two.\"\n\nLouisa turned round from the window.\n\n\"I value the Prayer Book as you cannot do, my love,\" she continued; \"for\nI have known what it is to one in deep affliction. May it be long,\ndearest girls, before you know it in a similar way; but if affliction\ncomes on you, depend on it, all these new fancies and fashions will\nvanish from you like the wind, and the good old Prayer Book alone will\nstand you in any stead.\"\n\nThey were both touched.\n\n\"Come, my dears; I have spoken too seriously,\" she added. \"Go and take\nyour things off, and come and let us have some quiet work before\nluncheon-time.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nSome persons fidget at intellectual difficulties, and, successfully or\nnot, are ever trying to solve them. Charles was of a different cast of\ntemper; a new idea was not lost on him, but it did not distress him, if\nit was obscure, or conflicted with his habitual view of things. He let\nit work its way and find its place, and shape itself within him, by the\nslow spontaneous action of the mind. Yet perplexity is not in itself a\npleasant state; and he would have hastened its removal, had he been\nable.\n\nBy means of conversations such as those which we have related (to which\nmany others might be added, which we spare the reader's patience), and\nfrom the diversities of view which he met with in the University, he had\nnow come, in the course of a year, to one or two conclusions, not very\nnovel, but very important:--first, that there are a great many opinions\nin the world on the most momentous subjects; secondly, that all are not\nequally true; thirdly, that it is a duty to hold true opinions; and,\nfourthly, that it is uncommonly difficult to get hold of them. He had\nbeen accustomed, as we have seen, to fix his mind on persons, not on\nopinions, and to determine to like what was good in every one; but he\nhad now come to perceive that, to say the least, it was not respectable\nin any great question to hold false opinions. It did not matter that\nsuch false opinions were sincerely held,--he could not feel that respect\nfor a person who held what Sheffield called a sham, with which he\nregarded him who held a reality. White and Bateman were cases in point;\nthey were very good fellows, but he could not endure their unreal way of\ntalking, though they did not feel it to be unreal themselves. In like\nmanner, if the Roman Catholic system was untrue, so far was plain\n(putting aside higher considerations), that a person who believed in the\npower of saints, and prayed to them, was an actor in a great sham, let\nhim be as sincere as he would. He mistook words for things, and so far\nforth, he could not respect him more than he respected White or Bateman.\nAnd so of a Unitarian; if he believed the power of unaided human nature\nto be what it was not; if by birth man is fallen, and he thought him\nupright, he was holding an absurdity. He might redeem and cover this\nblot by a thousand excellences, but a blot it would remain; just as we\nshould feel a handsome man disfigured by the loss of an eye or a hand.\nAnd so, again, if a professing Christian made the Almighty a being of\nsimple benevolence, and He was, on the contrary, what the Church of\nEngland teaches, a God who punishes for the sake of justice, such a\nperson was making an idol or unreality the object of his religion, and\n(apart from more serious thoughts about him) so far he could not respect\nhim. Thus the principle of dogmatism gradually became an essential\nelement in Charles's religious views.\n\nGradually, and imperceptibly to himself; for the thoughts which we have\nbeen tracing only came on him at spare times, and were taken up at\nintervals from the point at which they were laid down. His lectures and\nother duties of the place, his friends and recreations, were the staple\nof the day; but there was this undercurrent ever in motion, and sounding\nin his mental ear as soon as other sounds were hushed. As he dressed in\nthe morning, as he sat under the beeches of his college-garden, when he\nstrolled into the meadow, when he went into the town to pay a bill or\nmake a call, when he threw himself on his sofa after shutting his oak at\nnight, thoughts cognate with those which have been described were busy\nwithin him.\n\nDiscussions, however, and inquiries, as far as Oxford could afford\nmatter for them, were for a while drawing to an end; for Trinity Sunday\nwas now past, and the Commemoration was close at hand. On the Sunday\nbefore it, the University sermon happened to be preached by a\ndistinguished person, whom that solemnity brought up to Oxford; no less\na man than the Very Rev. Dr. Brownside, the new Dean of Nottingham, some\ntime Huntingdonian Professor of Divinity, and one of the acutest, if not\nsoundest academical thinkers of the day. He was a little, prim,\nsmirking, be-spectacled man, bald in front, with curly black hair\nbehind, somewhat pompous in his manner, with a clear musical utterance,\nwhich enabled one to listen to him without effort. As a divine, he\nseemed never to have had any difficulty on any subject; he was so clear\nor so shallow, that he saw to the bottom of all his thoughts: or, since\nDr. Johnson tells us that \"all shallows are clear,\" we may perhaps\ndistinguish him by both epithets. Revelation to him, instead of being\nthe abyss of God's counsels, with its dim outlines and broad shadows,\nwas a flat, sunny plain, laid out with straight macadamised roads. Not,\nof course, that he denied the Divine incomprehensibility itself, with\ncertain heretics of old; but he maintained that in Revelation all that\nwas mysterious had been left out, and nothing given us but what was\npractical, and directly concerned us. It was, moreover, to him a marvel,\nthat every one did not agree with him in taking this simple, natural\nview, which he thought almost self-evident; and he attributed the\nphenomenon, which was by no means uncommon, to some want of clearness of\nhead, or twist of mind, as the case might be. He was a popular preacher;\nthat is, though he had few followers, he had numerous hearers; and on\nthis occasion the church was overflowing with the young men of the\nplace.\n\nHe began his sermon by observing, that it was not a little remarkable\nthat there were so few good reasoners in the world, considering that the\ndiscursive faculty was one of the characteristics of man's nature, as\ncontrasted with brute animals. It had indeed been said that brutes\nreasoned; but this was an analogical sense of the word \"reason,\" and an\ninstance of that very ambiguity of language, or confusion of thought, on\nwhich he was animadverting. In like manner, we say that the _reason_ why\nthe wind blows is, that there is a change of temperature in the\natmosphere; and the _reason_ why the bells ring is, because the ringers\npull them; but who would say that the wind _reasons_ or that bells\n_reason_? There was, he believed, no well-ascertained fact (an emphasis\non the word _fact_) of brutes reasoning. It had been said, indeed, that\nthat sagacious animal, the dog, if, in tracking his master, he met three\nways, after smelling the two, boldly pursued the third without any such\nprevious investigation; which, if true, would be an instance of a\ndisjunctive hypothetical syllogism. Also Dugald Stewart spoke of the\ncase of a monkey cracking nuts behind a door, which, not being a strict\nimitation of anything which he could have actually seen, implied an\noperation of abstraction, by which the clever brute had first ascended\nto the general notion of nut-crackers, which perhaps he had seen in a\nparticular instance, in silver or in steel, at his master's table, and\nthen descending, had embodied it, thus obtained, in the shape of an\nexpedient of his own devising. This was what had been said: however, he\nmight assume on the present occasion, that the faculty of reasoning was\ncharacteristic of the human species; and, this being the case, it\ncertainly was remarkable that so few persons reasoned well.\n\nAfter this introduction, he proceeded to attribute to this defect the\nnumber of religious differences in the world. He said that the most\ncelebrated questions in religion were but verbal ones; that the\ndisputants did not know their own meaning, or that of their opponents;\nand that a spice of good logic would have put an end to dissensions,\nwhich had troubled the world for centuries,--would have prevented many a\nbloody war, many a fierce anathema, many a savage execution, and many a\nponderous folio. He went on to imply that in fact there was no truth or\nfalsehood in the received dogmas in theology; that they were modes,\nneither good nor bad in themselves, but personal, national, or periodic,\nin which the intellect reasoned upon the great truths of religion; that\nthe fault lay, not in holding them, but in insisting on them, which was\nlike insisting on a Hindoo dressing like a Fin, or a regiment of\ndragoons using the boomarang.\n\nHe proceeded to observe, that from what he had said, it was plain in\nwhat point of view the Anglican formularies were to be regarded; viz.\nthey were _our_ mode of expressing everlasting truths, which might be as\nwell expressed in other ways, as any correct thinker would be able to\nsee. Nothing, then, was to be altered in them; they were to be retained\nin their integrity; but it was ever to be borne in mind that they were\nAnglican theology, not theology in the abstract; and that, though the\nAthanasian Creed was good for us, it did not follow that it was good for\nour neighbours; rather, that what seemed the very reverse might suit\nothers better, might be _their_ mode of expressing the same truths.\n\nHe concluded with one word in favour of Nestorius, two for Abelard,\nthree for Luther, \"that great mind,\" as he worded it, \"who saw that\nchurches, creeds, rites, persons, were nought in religion, and that the\ninward spirit, _faith_,\" as he himself expressed it, \"was all in all;\"\nand with a hint that nothing would go well in the University till this\ngreat principle was so far admitted, as to lead its members--not,\nindeed, to give up their own distinctive formularies, no--but to\nconsider the direct contradictories of them equally pleasing to the\ndivine Author of Christianity.\n\nCharles did not understand the full drift of the sermon; but he\nunderstood enough to make him feel that it was different from any sermon\nhe had heard in his life. He more than doubted, whether, if his good\nfather had heard it, he would not have made it an exception to his\nfavourite dictum. He came away marvelling with himself what the preacher\ncould mean, and whether he had misunderstood him. Did he mean that\nUnitarians were only bad reasoners, and might be as good Christians as\northodox believers? He could mean nothing else. But what if, after all,\nhe was right? He indulged the thought awhile. \"Then every one is what\nSheffield calls a sham, more or less; and there was no reason for being\nannoyed at any one. Then I was right originally in wishing to take every\none for what he was. Let me think; every one a sham ... shams are\nrespectable, or rather no one is respectable. We can't do without some\noutward form of belief; one is not truer than another; that is, all are\nequally true.... _All_ are true.... That is the better way of taking it;\nnone are shams, all are true.... All are _true_! impossible! one as true\nas another! why then it is as true that our Lord is a mere man, as that\nHe is God. He could not possibly mean this; what _did_ he mean?\"\n\nSo Charles went on, painfully perplexed, yet out of this perplexity two\nconvictions came upon him, the first of them painful too; that he could\nnot take for gospel everything that was said, even by authorities of the\nplace and divines of name; and next, that his former amiable feeling of\ntaking every one for what he was, was a dangerous one, leading with\nlittle difficulty to a sufferance of every sort of belief, and\nlegitimately terminating in the sentiment expressed in Pope's Universal\nPrayer, which his father had always held up to him as a pattern specimen\nof shallow philosophism:--\n\n    \"Father of all, in every age,\n      In every clime adored,\n    By saint, by savage, and by sage,\n      Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nCharles went up this term for his first examination, and this caused him\nto remain in Oxford some days after the undergraduate part of his\ncollege had left for the Long Vacation. Thus he came across Mr. Vincent,\none of the junior tutors, who was kind enough to ask him to dine in\nCommon-room on Sunday, and on several mornings made him take some turns\nwith him up and down the Fellows' walk in the college garden.\n\nA few years make a great difference in the standing of men at Oxford,\nand this made Mr. Vincent what is called a don in the eyes of persons\nwho were very little younger than himself. Besides, Vincent looked much\nolder than he really was; he was of a full habit, with a florid\ncomplexion and large blue eyes, and showed a deal of linen at his bosom,\nand full wristbands at his cuffs. Though a clever man, and a hard reader\nand worker, and a capital tutor, he was a good feeder as well; he ate\nand drank, he walked and rode, with as much heart as he lectured in\nAristotle, or crammed in Greek plays. What is stranger still, with all\nthis he was something of a valetudinarian. He had come off from school\non a foundation fellowship, and had the reputation both at school and\nin the University of being a first-rate scholar. He was a strict\ndisciplinarian in his way, had the undergraduates under his thumb, and\nhaving some _bonhomie_ in his composition, was regarded by them with\nmingled feelings of fear and good will. They laughed at him, but\ncarefully obeyed him. Besides this he preached a good sermon, read\nprayers with unction, and in his conversation sometimes had even a touch\nof evangelical spirituality. The young men even declared they could tell\nhow much port he had taken in Common-room by the devoutness of his\nresponses in evening-chapel; and it was on record that once, during the\nConfession, he had, in the heat of his contrition, shoved over the huge\nvelvet cushion in which his elbows were imbedded upon the heads of the\ngentlemen commoners who sat under him.\n\nHe had just so much originality of mind as gave him an excuse for being\n\"his own party\" in religion, or what he himself called being \"no party\nman;\" and just so little that he was ever mistaking shams for truths,\nand converting pompous nothings into oracles. He was oracular in his\nmanner, denounced parties and party-spirit, and thought to avoid the one\nand the other by eschewing all persons, and holding all opinions. He had\na great idea of the _via media_ being the truth; and to obtain it,\nthought it enough to flee from extremes, without having any very\ndefinite mean to flee to. He had not clearness of intellect enough to\npursue a truth to its limits, nor boldness enough to hold it in its\nsimplicity; but he was always saying things and unsaying them, balancing\nhis thoughts in impossible attitudes, and guarding his words by\nunintelligible limitations. As to the men and opinions of the day and\nplace, he would in the main have agreed with them, had he let himself\nalone; but he was determined to have an intellect of his own, and this\nput him to great shifts when he would distinguish himself from them. Had\nhe been older than they, he would have talked of \"young heads,\" \"hot\nheads,\" and the like; but since they were grave and cool men, and outran\nhim by fourteen or fifteen years, he found nothing better than to shake\nhis head, mutter against party-spirit, refuse to read their books, lest\nhe should be obliged to agree with them, and make a boast of avoiding\ntheir society. At the present moment he was on the point of starting for\na continental tour to recruit himself after the labours of an Oxford\nyear; meanwhile he was keeping hall and chapel open for such men as were\nwaiting either for Responsions, or for their battel money; and he took\nnotice of Reding as a clever, modest youth of whom something might be\nmade. Under this view of him, he had, among other civilities, asked him\nto breakfast a day or two before he went down.\n\nA tutor's breakfast is always a difficult affair both for host and\nguests; and Vincent piqued himself on the tact with which he managed it.\nThe material part was easy enough; there were rolls, toast, muffins,\neggs, cold lamb, strawberries, on the table; and in due season the\ncollege-servant brought in mutton-cutlets and broiled ham; and every one\nate to his heart's, or rather his appetite's, content. It was a more\narduous undertaking to provide the running accompaniment of thought, or\nat least of words, without which the breakfast would have been little\nbetter than a pig-trough. The conversation or rather mono-polylogue, as\nsome great performer calls it, ran in somewhat of the following strain:\n\n\"Mr. Bruton,\" said Vincent, \"what news from Staffordshire? Are the\npotteries pretty quiet now? Our potteries grow in importance. You need\nnot look at the cup and saucer before you, Mr. Catley; those came from\nDerbyshire. But you find English crockery everywhere on the Continent. I\nmyself found half a willow-pattern saucer in the crater of Vesuvius. Mr.\nSikes, I think _you_ have _been_ in Italy?\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" said Sikes; \"I was near going; my family set off a fortnight\nago, but I was kept here by these confounded smalls.\"\n\n\"Your _Responsiones_,\" answered the tutor in a tone of rebuke; \"an\nunfortunate delay for you, for it is to be an unusually fine season, if\nthe meteorologists of the sister University are right in their\npredictions. Who is in the Responsion schools, Mr. Sikes?\"\n\n\"Butson of Leicester is the strict one, sir; he plucks one man in three.\nHe plucked last week Patch of St. George's, and Patch has taken his oath\nhe'll shoot him; and Butson has walked about ever since with a bulldog.\"\n\n\"These are reports, Mr. Sikes, which often flit about, but must not be\ntrusted. Mr. Patch could not have given a better proof that his\nrejection was deserved.\"\n\nA pause--during which poor Vincent hastily gobbled up two or three\nmouthfuls of bread and butter, the knives and forks meanwhile clinking\nupon his guests' plates.\n\n\"Sir, is it true,\" began one of his guests at length, \"that the old\nPrincipal is going to be married?\"\n\n\"These are matters, Mr. Atkins,\" answered Vincent, \"which we should\nalways inquire about at the fountain-head; _antiquam exquirite matrem_,\nor rather _patrem_; ha, ha! Take some more tea, Mr. Reding; it won't\nhurt your nerves. I am rather choice in my tea; this comes overland\nthrough Russia; the sea-air destroys the flavour of our common tea.\nTalking of air, Mr. Tenby, I think you are a chemist. Have you paid\nattention to the recent experiments on the composition and resolution of\nair? Not? I am surprised at it; they are well worth your most serious\nconsideration. It is now pretty well ascertained that inhaling gases is\nthe cure for all kinds of diseases. People are beginning to talk of the\ngas-cure, as they did of the water-cure. The great foreign chemist,\nProfessor Scaramouch, has the credit of the discovery. The effects are\nastounding, quite astounding; and there are several remarkable\ncoincidences. You know medicines are always unpleasant, and so these\ngases are always fetid. The Professor cures by stenches, and has brought\nhis science to such perfection that he actually can classify them. There\nare six elementary stenches, and these spread into a variety of\nsubdivisions? What do you say, Mr. Reding? Distinctive? Yes, there is\nsomething very distinctive in smells. But what is most gratifying of\nall, and is the great coincidence I spoke of, his ultimate resolution of\nfetid gases assigns to them the very same precise number as is given to\nexisting complaints in the latest treatises on pathology. Each complaint\nhas its gas. And, what is still more singular, an exhausted receiver is\na specific for certain desperate disorders. For instance, it has\neffected several cures of hydrophobia. Mr. Seaton,\" he continued to a\nfreshman, who, his breakfast finished, was sitting uncomfortably on his\nchair, looking down and playing with his knife--\"Mr. Seaton, you are\nlooking at that picture\"--it was almost behind Seaton's back--\"I don't\nwonder at it; it was given me by my good old mother, who died many years\nago. It represents some beautiful Italian scenery.\"\n\nVincent stood up, and his party after him, and all crowded round the\npicture.\n\n\"I prefer the green of England,\" said Reding.\n\n\"England has not that brilliant variety of colour,\" said Tenby.\n\n\"But there is something so soothing in green.\"\n\n\"You know, of course, Mr. Reding,\" said the tutor, \"that there is plenty\nof green in Italy, and in winter even more than in England; only there\nare other colours too.\"\n\n\"But I can't help fancying,\" said Charles, \"that that mixture of colours\ntakes off from it the repose of English scenery.\"\n\n\"The repose, for instance,\" said Tenby, \"of Binsey Common, or Port\nMeadow in winter.\"\n\n\"Say in summer,\" said Reding; \"if you choose place, I will choose time.\nI think the University goes down just when Oxford begins to be most\nbeautiful. The walks and meadows are so fragrant and bright now, the hay\nhalf carried, and the short new grass appearing.\"\n\n\"Reding ought to live here all through the Long,\" said Tenby: \"does any\none live through the Vacation, sir, in Oxford?\"\n\n\"Do you mean they die before the end of it, Mr. Tenby?\" asked Vincent.\n\"It can't be denied,\" he continued, \"that many, like Mr. Reding, think\nit a most pleasant time. _I_ am fond of Oxford; but it is not my\n_habitat_ out of term-time.\"\n\n\"Well, I think I should like to make it so,\" said Charles, \"but, I\nsuppose, undergraduates are not allowed.\"\n\nMr. Vincent answered with more than necessary gravity, \"No;\" it rested\nwith the Principal; but he conceived that he would not consent to it.\nVincent added that certainly there _were_ parties who remained in Oxford\nthrough the Long Vacation. It was said mysteriously.\n\nCharles answered that, if it was against college rules, there was no\nhelp for it; else, were he reading for his degree, he should like\nnothing better than to pass the Long Vacation in Oxford, if he might\njudge by the pleasantness of the last ten days.\n\n\"That is a compliment, Mr. Reding, to your company,\" said Vincent.\n\nAt this moment the door opened, and in came the manciple with the dinner\npaper, which Mr. Vincent had formally to run his eye over. \"Watkins,\" he\nsaid, giving it back to him, \"I almost think to-day is one of the Fasts\nof the Church. Go and look, Watkins, and bring me word.\"\n\nThe astonished manciple, who had never been sent on such a commission in\nhis whole career before, hastened out of the room, to task his wits how\nbest to fulfil it. The question seemed to strike the company as\nforcibly, for there was a sudden silence, which was succeeded by a\nshuffling of feet and a leave-taking; as if, though they had secured\ntheir ham and mutton at breakfast, they did not like to risk their\ndinner. Watkins returned sooner than could have been expected. He said\nthat Mr. Vincent was right; to-day he had found was \"the feast of the\nApostles.\"\n\n\"The Vigil of St. Peter, you mean, Watkins,\" said Mr. Vincent; \"I\nthought so. Then let us have a plain beefsteak and a saddle of mutton;\nno Portugal onions, Watkins, or currant-jelly; and some simple pudding,\nCharlotte pudding, Watkins--that will do.\"\n\nWatkins vanished. By this time, Charles found himself alone with the\ncollege authority; who began to speak to him in a more confidential\ntone.\n\n\"Mr. Reding,\" said he, \"I did not like to question you before the\nothers, but I conceive you had no particular _meaning_ in your praise of\nOxford in the Long Vacation? In the mouths of some it would have been\nsuspicious.\"\n\nCharles was all surprise.\n\n\"To tell the truth, Mr. Reding, as things stand,\" he proceeded, \"it is\noften a mark of _party_, this residence in the Vacation; though, of\ncourse, there is nothing in the _thing_ itself but what is perfectly\nnatural and right.\"\n\nCharles was all attention.\n\n\"My good sir,\" the tutor proceeded, \"avoid parties; be sure to avoid\nparty. You are young in your career among us. I always feel anxious\nabout young men of talent; there is the greatest danger of the talent\nof the University being absorbed in party.\"\n\nReding expressed a hope that nothing he had done had given cause to his\ntutor's remark.\n\n\"No,\" replied Mr. Vincent, \"no;\" yet with some slight hesitation; \"no, I\ndon't know that it has. But I have thought some of your remarks and\nquestions at lecture were like a person pushing things _too far_, and\nwishing to form a _system_.\"\n\nCharles was so much taken aback by the charge, that the unexplained\nmystery of the Long Vacation went out of his head. He said he was \"very\nsorry,\" and \"obliged;\" and tried to recollect what he could have said to\ngive ground to Mr. Vincent's remark. Not being able at the moment to\nrecollect, he went on. \"I assure you, sir, I know so little of parties\nin the place, that I hardly know their leaders. I have heard persons\nmentioned, but, if I tried, I think I should, in some cases, mismatch\nnames and opinions.\"\n\n\"I believe it,\" said Vincent; \"but you are young; I am cautioning you\nagainst _tendencies_. You may suddenly find yourself absorbed before you\nknow where you are.\"\n\nCharles thought this a good opportunity of asking some questions in\ndetail, about points which puzzled him. He asked whether Dr. Brownside\nwas considered a safe divine to follow.\n\n\"I hold, d'ye see,\" answered Vincent, \"that all errors are counterfeits\nof truth. Clever men say true things, Mr. Reding, true in their\nsubstance, but,\" sinking his voice to a whisper, \"they go _too far_. It\nmight even be shown that all sects are in one sense but parts of the\nCatholic Church. I don't say true parts, that is a further question; but\nthey _embody_ great _principles_. The Quakers represent the principle of\nsimplicity and evangelical poverty; they even have a dress of their own,\nlike monks. The Independents represent the rights of the laity; the\nWesleyans cherish the devotional principle; the Irvingites, the\nsymbolical and mystical; the High Church party, the principle of\nobedience; the Liberals are the guardians of reason. No party, then, I\nconceive, is entirely right or entirely wrong. As to Dr. Brownside,\nthere certainly have been various opinions entertained about his\ndivinity; still, he is an able man, and I think you will gain _good_,\ngain _good_ from his teaching. But mind, I don't _recommend_ him; yet I\nrespect him, and I consider that he says many things very well worth\nyour attention. I would advise you, then, to accept the _good_ which his\nsermons offer, without committing yourself to the _bad_. That, depend\nupon it, Mr. Reding, is the golden though the obvious rule in these\nmatters.\"\n\nCharles said, in answer, that Mr. Vincent was overrating his powers;\nthat he had to learn before he could judge; and that he wished very much\nto know whether Vincent could recommend him any book, in which he might\nsee at once _what_ the true Church-of-England doctrine was on a number\nof points which perplexed him.\n\nMr. Vincent replied, he must be on his guard against dissipating his\nmind with such reading, at a time when his University duties had a\ndefinite claim upon him. He ought to avoid all controversies of the\nday, all authors of the day. He would advise him to read _no_ living\nauthors. \"Read dead authors alone,\" he continued; \"dead authors are\nsafe. Our great divines,\" and he stood upright, \"were models; 'there\nwere giants on the earth in those days,' as King George the Third had\nonce said of them to Dr. Johnson. They had that depth, and power, and\ngravity, and fulness, and erudition; and they were so racy, always racy,\nand what might be called English. They had that richness, too, such a\nmine of thought, such a world of opinion, such activity of mind, such\ninexhaustible resource, such diversity, too. Then they were so eloquent;\nthe majestic Hooker, the imaginative Taylor, the brilliant Hall, the\nlearning of Barrow, the strong sense of South, the keen logic of\nChillingworth, good, honest old Burnet,\" etc., etc.\n\nThere did not seem much reason why he should stop at one moment more\nthan another; at length, however, he did stop. It was prose, but it was\npleasant prose to Charles; he knew just enough about these writers to\nfeel interested in hearing them talked about, and to him Vincent seemed\nto be saying a good deal, when in fact he was saying very little. When\nhe stopped, Charles said he believed that there were persons in the\nUniversity who were promoting the study of these authors.\n\nMr. Vincent looked grave. \"It is true,\" he said; \"but, my young friend,\nI have already hinted to you that indifferent things are perverted to\nthe purposes of _party_. At this moment the names of some of our\ngreatest divines are little better than a watchword by which the\nopinions of living individuals are signified.\"\n\n\"Which opinions, I suppose,\" Charles answered, \"are not to be found in\nthose authors.\"\n\n\"I'll not say that,\" said Mr. Vincent. \"I have the greatest respect for\nthe individuals in question, and I am not denying that they have done\ngood to our Church by drawing attention in this lax day to the old\nChurch-of-England divinity. But it is one thing to agree with these\ngentlemen; another,\" laying his hand on Charles's shoulder, \"another to\nbelong to their party. Do not make man your master; get good from all;\nthink well of all persons, and you will be a wise man.\"\n\nReding inquired, with some timidity, if this was not something like what\nDr. Brownside had said in the University pulpit; but perhaps the latter\nadvocated a toleration of opinions in a different sense? Mr. Vincent\nanswered rather shortly, that he had not heard Dr. Brownside's sermon;\nbut, for himself, he had been speaking only of persons in our own\ncommunion.\n\n\"Our Church,\" he said, \"admitted of great liberty of thought within her\npale. Even our greatest divines differed from each other in many\nrespects; nay, Bishop Taylor differed from himself. It was a great\nprinciple in the English Church. Her true children agree to differ. In\ntruth,\" he continued, \"there is that robust, masculine, noble\nindependence in the English mind, which refuses to be tied down to\nartificial shapes, but is like, I will say, some great and beautiful\nproduction of nature,--a tree, which is rich in foliage and fantastic\nin limb, no sickly denizen of the hothouse, or helpless dependent of\nthe garden wall, but in careless magnificence sheds its fruits upon the\nfree earth, for the bird of the air and the beast of the field, and all\nsorts of cattle, to eat thereof and rejoice.\"\n\nWhen Charles came away, he tried to think what he had gained by his\nconversation with Mr. Vincent; not exactly what he had wanted, some\npractical rules to guide his mind and keep him steady; but still some\nuseful hints. He had already been averse to parties, and offended at\nwhat he saw of individuals attached to them. Vincent had confirmed him\nin his resolution to keep aloof from them, and to attend to his duties\nin the place. He felt pleased to have had this talk with him; but what\ncould he mean by suspecting a tendency in himself to push things too\nfar, and thereby to implicate himself in party? He was obliged to resign\nhimself to ignorance on the subject, and to be content with keeping a\nwatch over himself in future.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nNo opportunity has occurred of informing the reader that, during the\nlast week or two, Charles had accidentally been a good deal thrown\nacross Willis, the _umbra_ of White at Bateman's breakfast-party. He had\nliked his looks on that occasion, when he was dumb; he did not like him\nso much when he heard him talk; still he could not help being interested\nin him, and not the least for this reason, that Willis seemed to have\ntaken a great fancy to himself. He certainly did court Charles, and\nseemed anxious to stand well with him. Charles, however, did not like\nhis mode of talking better than he did White's; and when he first saw\nhis rooms, there was much in them which shocked both his good sense and\nhis religious principles. A large ivory crucifix, in a glass case, was a\nconspicuous ornament between the windows; an engraving, representing the\nBlessed Trinity, as is usual in Catholic countries, hung over the\nfireplace, and a picture of the Madonna and St. Dominic was opposite to\nit. On the mantelpiece were a rosary, a thuribulum, and other tokens of\nCatholicism, of which Charles did not know the uses; a missal, ritual,\nand some Catholic tracts, lay on the table; and, as he happened to come\non Willis unexpectedly, he found him sitting in a vestment more like a\ncassock than a reading-gown, and engaged upon some portion of the\nBreviary. Virgil and Sophocles, Herodotus and Cicero seemed, as impure\npagans, to have hid themselves in corners, or flitted away, before the\nawful presence of the Ancient Church. Charles had taken upon himself to\nprotest against some of these singularities, but without success.\n\nOn the evening before his departure for the country he had occasion to\ngo towards Folly Bridge to pay a bill, when he was startled, as he\npassed what he had ever taken for a dissenting chapel, to see Willis\ncome out of it. He hardly could believe he saw correctly; he knew,\nindeed, that Willis had been detained in Oxford, as he had been himself;\nbut what had compelled him to a visit so extraordinary as that which he\nhad just made, Charles had no means of determining.\n\n\"Willis!\" he cried, as he stopped.\n\nWillis coloured, and tried to look easy.\n\n\"Do come a few paces with me,\" said Charles. \"What in the world has\ntaken you there? Is it not a dissenting meeting?\"\n\n\"Dissenting meeting!\" cried Willis, surprised and offended in his turn:\n\"what on earth could make you think I would go to a dissenting meeting?\"\n\n\"Well, I beg your pardon,\" said Charles; \"I recollect now: it's the\nexhibition room. However, _once_ it _was_ a chapel: that's my mistake.\nIsn't it what is called 'the Old Methodist Chapel?' I never was there;\nthey showed there the _Dio-astro-doxon_, so I think they called it.\"\nCharles talked on, to cover his own mistake, for he was ashamed of the\ncharge he had made.\n\nWillis did not know whether he was in jest or earnest. \"Reding,\" he\nsaid, \"don't go on; you offend me.\"\n\n\"Well, what is it?\" said Charles.\n\n\"You know well enough,\" answered Willis, \"though you wish to annoy me.\"\n\n\"I don't indeed.\"\n\n\"It's the Catholic church,\" said Willis.\n\nReding was silent a moment; then he said, \"Well, I don't think you have\nmended the matter; it _is_ a dissenting meeting, call it what you will,\nthough not the kind of one I meant.\"\n\n\"What can you mean?\" asked Willis.\n\n\"Rather, what mean _you_ by going to such places?\" retorted Charles;\n\"why, it is against your oath.\"\n\n\"My oath! what oath?\"\n\n\"There's not an oath now; but there was an oath till lately,\" said\nReding; \"and we still make a very solemn engagement. Don't you recollect\nyour matriculation at the Vice-Chancellor's, and what oaths and\ndeclarations you made?\"\n\n\"I don't know what I made: my tutor told me nothing about it. I signed a\nbook or two.\"\n\n\"You did more,\" said Reding. \"I was told most carefully. You solemnly\nengaged to keep the statutes; and one statute is, not to go into any\ndissenting chapel or meeting whatever.\"\n\n\"Catholics are not Dissenters,\" said Willis.\n\n\"Oh, don't speak so,\" said Charles; \"you know it's meant to include\nthem. The statute wishes us to keep from all places of worship whatever\nbut our own.\"\n\n\"But it is an illegal declaration or vow,\" said Willis, \"and so not\nbinding.\"\n\n\"Where did you find that get-off?\" said Charles; \"the priest put that\ninto your head.\"\n\n\"I don't know the priest; I never spoke a word to him,\" answered Willis.\n\n\"Well, any how, it's not your own answer,\" said Reding; \"and does not\nhelp you. I am no casuist; but if it is an illegal engagement you should\nnot continue to enjoy the benefit of it.\"\n\n\"What benefit?\"\n\n\"Your cap and gown; a university education; the chance of a scholarship\nor fellowship. Give up these, and then plead, if you will, and lawfully,\nthat you are quit of your engagement; but don't sail under false\ncolours: don't take the benefit and break the stipulation.\"\n\n\"You take it too seriously; there are half a hundred statutes _you_\ndon't keep, any more than I. You are most inconsistent.\"\n\n\"Well, if we don't keep them,\" said Charles, \"I suppose it is in points\nwhere the authorities don't enforce them; for instance, they don't mean\nus to dress in brown, though the statutes order it.\"\n\n\"But they _do_ mean to keep you from walking down High Street in\nbeaver,\" answered Willis; \"for the Proctors march up and down, and send\nyou back, if they catch you.\"\n\n\"But _this_ is a different matter,\" said Reding, changing his ground;\n\"this is a matter of religion. It can't be right to go to strange places\nof worship or meetings.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Willis, \"if we are one Church with the Roman Catholics, I\ncan't make out for the life of me how it's wrong for us to go to them or\nthem to us.\"\n\n\"I'm no divine, I don't understand what is meant by one Church,\" said\nCharles; \"but I know well that there's not a bishop, not a clergyman,\nnot a sober churchman in the land but would give it against you. It's a\nsheer absurdity.\"\n\n\"Don't talk in that way,\" answered Willis, \"please don't. I feel all my\nheart drawn to the Catholic worship; our own service is so cold.\"\n\n\"That's just what every stiff Dissenter says,\" answered Charles; \"every\npoor cottager, too, who knows no better, and goes after the\nMethodists--after her dear Mr. Spoutaway or the preaching cobbler. _She_\nsays (I have heard them), 'Oh, sir, I suppose we ought to go where we\nget most good. Mr. So-and-so goes to my heart--he goes through me.'\"\n\nWillis laughed; \"Well, not a bad reason, as times go, _I_ think,\" said\nhe: \"poor souls, what better means of judging have they? how can you\nhope they will like 'the Scripture moveth us'? Really you are making too\nmuch of it. This is only the second time I have been there, and, I tell\nyou in earnest, I find my mind filled with awe and devotion there; as I\nthink you would too. I really am better for it; I cannot pray in church;\nthere's a bad smell there, and the pews hide everything; I can't see\nthrough a deal board. But here, when I went in, I found all still, and\ncalm, the space open, and, in the twilight, the Tabernacle just visible,\npointed out by the lamp.\"\n\nCharles looked very uncomfortable. \"Really, Willis,\" he said, \"I don't\nknow what to say to you. Heaven forbid that I should speak against the\nRoman Catholics; I know nothing about them. But _this_ I know, that you\nare not a Roman Catholic, and have no business there. If they have such\nsacred things among them as those you allude to, still these are not\nyours; you are an intruder. I know nothing about it; I don't like to\ngive a judgment, I am sure. But it's a tampering with sacred things;\nrunning here and there, touching and tasting, taking up, putting down. I\ndon't like it,\" he added, with vehemence; \"it's taking liberties with\nGod.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear Reding, please don't speak so very severely,\" said poor\nWillis; \"now what have I done more than you would do yourself, were you\nin France or Italy? Do you mean to say you wouldn't enter the churches\nabroad?\"\n\n\"I will only decide about what is before me,\" answered Reding; \"when I\ngo abroad, then will be the time to think about your question. It is\nquite enough to know what we ought to do at the moment, and I am clear\nyou have been doing wrong. How did you find your way there?\"\n\n\"White took me.\"\n\n\"Then there is one man in the world more thoughtless than you: do many\nof the gownsmen go there?\"\n\n\"Not that I know of; one or two have gone from curiosity; there is no\npractice of going, at least this is what I am told.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"you must promise me you will not go again. Come,\nwe won't part till you do.\"\n\n\"That is too much,\" said Willis, gently; then, disengaging his arm from\nReding's, he suddenly darted away from him, saying, \"Good-bye, good-bye;\nto our next merry meeting--_au revoir_.\"\n\nThere was no help for it. Charles walked slowly home, saying to himself:\n\"What if, after all, the Roman Catholic Church is the true Church? I\nwish I knew what to believe; no one will tell me what to believe; I am\nso left to myself.\" Then he thought: \"I suppose I know quite enough for\npractice--more than I _do_ practise; and I ought surely to be contented\nand thankful.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nCharles was an affectionate son, and the Long Vacation passed very\nhappily at home. He was up early, and read steadily till luncheon, and\nthen he was at the service of his father, mother, and sisters for the\nrest of the day. He loved the calm, quiet country; he loved the\nmonotonous flow of time, when each day is like the other; and, after the\nexcitement of Oxford, the secluded parsonage was like a haven beyond the\ntossing of the waves. The whirl of opinions and perplexities which had\nencircled him at Oxford now were like the distant sound of the\nocean--they reminded him of his present security. The undulating\nmeadows, the green lanes, the open heath, the common with its\nwide-spreading dusky elms, the high timber which fringed the level path\nfrom village to village, ever and anon broken and thrown into groups, or\nlosing itself in copses--even the gate, and the stile, and the\nturnpike-road had the charm, not of novelty, but of long familiar use;\nthey had the poetry of many recollections. Nor was the dilapidated,\ndeformed church, with its outside staircases, its unsightly galleries,\nits wide intruded windows, its uncouth pews, its low nunting table, its\nforlorn vestry, and its damp earthy smell, without its pleasant\nassociations to the inner man; for there it was that for many a year,\nSunday after Sunday, he had heard his dear father read and preach; there\nwere the old monuments, with Latin inscriptions and strange devices, the\nblack boards with white letters, the Resurgams and grinning skulls, the\nfire-buckets, the faded militia-colours, and, almost as much a fixture,\nthe old clerk, with a Welsh wig over his ears, shouting the responses\nout of place--which had arrested his imagination, and awed him when a\nchild. And then there was his home itself; its well-known rooms, its\npleasant routine, its order, and its comfort--an old and true friend,\nthe dearer to him because he had made new ones. \"Where I shall be in\ntime to come I know not,\" he said to himself; \"I am but a boy; many\nthings which I have not a dream of, which my imagination cannot compass,\nmay come on me before I die--if I live; but here at least, and now, I am\nhappy, and I will enjoy my happiness. Some say that school is the\npleasantest time of one's life; this does not exclude college. I suppose\ncare is what makes life so wearing. At present I have no care, no\nresponsibility; I suppose I shall feel a little when I go up for my\ndegree. Care is a terrible thing; I have had a little of it at times at\nschool. What a strange thing to fancy, I shall be one day twenty-five or\nthirty! How the weeks are flying by! the Vacation will soon be over. Oh,\nI am so happy, it quite makes me afraid. Yet I shall have strength for\nmy day.\"\n\nSometimes, however, his thoughts took a sadder turn, and he anticipated\nthe future more vividly than he enjoyed the present. Mr. Malcolm had\ncome to see them, after an absence from the parsonage for several years:\nhis visit was a great pleasure to Mr. Reding, and not much less to\nhimself, to whom a green home and a family circle were agreeable sights,\nafter his bachelor-life at college. He had been a great favourite with\nCharles and his sisters as children, though now his popularity with them\nfor the most part rested on the memory of the past. When he told them\namusing stories, or allowed them to climb his knee and take off his\nspectacles, he did all that was necessary to gain their childish hearts;\nmore is necessary to conciliate the affection of young men and women;\nand thus it is not surprising that he lived in their minds principally\nby prescription. He neither knew this, nor would have thought much about\nit if he had; for, like many persons of advancing years, he made himself\nvery much his own centre, did not care to enter into the minds of\nothers, did not consult for them, or find his happiness in them. He was\nkind and friendly to the young people, as he would be kind to a\ncanary-bird or a lap-dog; it was a sort of external love; and, though\nthey got on capitally with him, they did not miss him when gone, nor\nwould have been much troubled to know that he was never to come again.\nCharles drove him about the country, stamped his letters, secured him\nhis newspapers from the neighbouring town, and listened to his stories\nabout Oxford and Oxford men. He really liked him, and wished to please\nhim; but, as to consulting him in any serious matter, or going to him\nfor comfort in affliction, he would as soon have thought of betaking him\nto Dan the pedlar, or old Isaac who played the Sunday bassoon.\n\n\"How have your peaches been this year, Malcolm?\" said Mr. Reding one day\nafter dinner to his guest.\n\n\"You ought to know that we have no peaches in Oxford,\" answered Mr.\nMalcolm.\n\n\"My memory plays me false, then: I had a vision of, at least, October\npeaches on one occasion, and fine ones too.\"\n\n\"Ah, you mean at old Tom Spindle's, the jockey's,\" answered Mr. Malcolm;\n\"it's true, he had a bit of a brick wall, and was proud of it. But\npeaches come when there is no one in Oxford to eat them; so either the\ntree, or at least the fruit, is a great rarity there. Oxford wasn't so\nempty once; you have old mulberry-trees there in record of better days.\"\n\n\"At that time, too,\" said Charles, \"I suppose, the more expensive fruits\nwere not cultivated. Mulberries are the witness, not only of a full\ncollege, but of simple tastes.\"\n\n\"Charles is secretly cutting at our hothouse here,\" said Mr. Reding; \"as\nif our first father did not prefer fruits and flowers to beef and\nmutton.\"\n\n\"No, indeed,\" said Charles, \"I think peaches capital things; and as to\nflowers, I am even too fond of scents.\"\n\n\"Charles has some theory, then, about scents, I'll be bound,\" said his\nfather; \"I never knew a boy who so placed his likings and dislikings on\nfancies. He began to eat olives directly he read the OEdipus of\nSophocles; and, I verily believe, will soon give up oranges from his\ndislike to King William.\"\n\n\"Every one does so,\" said Charles: \"who would not be in the fashion?\nThere's Aunt Kitty, she calls a bonnet, 'a sweet' one year, which makes\nher 'a perfect fright' the next.\"\n\n\"You're right, papa, in this instance,\" said his mother; \"I know he has\nsome good reason, though I never can recollect it, why he smells a rose,\nor distils lavender. What is it, my dear Mary?\"\n\n\"'Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,'\" said she.\n\n\"Why, sir, that was precisely your own reason just now,\" said Charles to\nhis father.\n\n\"There's more than that,\" said Mrs. Reding, \"if I knew what it was.\"\n\n\"He thinks the scent more intellectual than the other senses,\" said\nMary, smiling.\n\n\"Such a boy for paradoxes!\" said his mother.\n\n\"Well, so it is in a certain way,\" said Charles, \"but I can't explain.\nSounds and scents are more ethereal, less material; they have no\nshape--like the angels.\"\n\nMr. Malcolm laughed. \"Well, I grant it, Charles,\" he said; \"they are\nlength without breadth!\"\n\n\"Did you ever hear the like?\" said Mrs. Reding, laughing too; \"don't\nencourage him, Mr. Malcolm; you are worse than he. Angels length without\nbreadth!\"\n\n\"They pass from place to place, they come, they go,\" continued Mr.\nMalcolm.\n\n\"They conjure up the past so vividly,\" said Charles.\n\n\"But sounds surely more than scents,\" said Mr. Malcolm.\n\n\"Pardon me; the reverse as _I_ think,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"That _is_ a paradox, Charles,\" said Mr. Malcolm; \"the smell of\nroast-beef never went further than to remind a man of dinner; but sounds\nare pathetic and inspiring.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, but think of this,\" said Charles, \"scents are complete in\nthemselves, yet do not consist of parts. Think how very distinct the\nsmell of a rose is from a pink, a pink from a sweet-pea, a sweet-pea\nfrom a stock, a stock from lilac, lilac from lavender, lavender from\njasmine, jasmine from honeysuckle, honeysuckle from hawthorn, hawthorn\nfrom hyacinth, hyacinth\"----\n\n\"Spare us,\" interrupted Mr. Malcolm; \"you are going through the index of\nLoudon!\"\n\n\"And these are only the scents of flowers; how different flowers smell\nfrom fruits, fruits from spices, spices from roast-beef or pork-cutlets,\nand so on. Now, what I was coming to is this--these scents are perfectly\ndistinct from each other, and _sui generis_; they never can be confused;\nyet each is communicated to the apprehension in an instant. Sights take\nup a great space, a tune is a succession of sounds; but scents are at\nonce specific and complete, yet indivisible. Who can halve a scent? they\nneed neither time nor space; thus they are immaterial or spiritual.\"\n\n\"Charles hasn't been to Oxford for nothing,\" said his mother, laughing\nand looking at Mary; \"this is what I call chopping logic!\"\n\n\"Well done, Charles,\" cried Mr. Malcolm; \"and now, since you have such\nclear notions of the power of smells, you ought, like the man in the\nstory, to be satisfied with smelling at your dinner, and grow fat upon\nit. It's a shame you sit down to table.\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" answered Charles, \"some people _do_ seem to thrive on snuff\nat least.\"\n\n\"For shame, Charles!\" said Mr. Malcolm; \"you have seen me use the\ncommon-room snuff-box to keep myself awake after dinner; but nothing\nmore. I keep a box in my pocket merely as a bauble--it was a present.\nYou should have lived when I was young. There was old Dr. Troughton of\nNun's Hall, he carried his snuff loose in his pocket; and old Mrs.\nVice-Principal Daffy used to lay a train along her arm, and fire it with\nher nose. Doctors of medicine took it as a preservative against\ninfection, and doctors of divinity against drowsiness in church.\"\n\n\"They take wine against infection now,\" said Mr. Reding; \"it's a much\nsurer protective.\"\n\n\"Wine?\" cried Mr. Malcolm; \"oh, they didn't take less wine then, as you\nand I know. On certain solemn occasions they made a point of getting\ndrunk, the whole college, from the Vice-Principal or Sub-Warden down to\nthe scouts. Heads of houses were kept in order by their wives; but I\nassure you the jolly god came _very_ near Mr. Vice-Chancellor himself.\nThere was old Dr. Sturdy of St. Michael's, a great martinet in his time.\nOne day the King passed through Oxford; Sturdy, a tall, upright,\niron-faced man, had to meet him in procession at Magdalen Bridge, and\nwalked down with his pokers before him, gold and silver, vergers, cocked\nhats, and the rest. There wasn't one of them that wasn't in liquor.\nThink of the good old man's horror, Majesty in the distance, and his own\npeople swaying to and fro under his very nose, and promising to leave\nhim for the gutter before the march was ended.\"\n\n\"No one can get tipsy with snuff, I grant,\" said Mr. Reding; \"but if\nwine has done some men harm it has done others a deal of good.\"\n\n\"Hair-powder is as bad as snuff,\" said Mary, preferring the former\nsubject; \"there's old Mr. Butler of Cooling, his wig is so large and\nfull of powder that when he nods his head I am sure to sneeze.\"\n\n\"Ah, but all these are accidents, young lady,\" said Mr. Malcolm, put out\nby this block to the conversation, and running off somewhat testily in\nanother direction; \"accidents after all. Old people are always the same;\nso are young. Each age has its own fashion: if Mr. Butler wore no wig,\nstill there would be something about him odd and strange to young eyes.\nCharles, don't you be an old bachelor. No one cares for old people.\nMarry, my dear boy; look out betimes for a virtuous young woman, who\nwill make you an attentive wife.\"\n\nCharles slightly coloured, and his sister laughed as if there was some\nunderstanding between them.\n\nMr. Malcolm continued: \"Don't wait till you want some one to buy flannel\nfor your rheumatism or gout; marry betimes.\"\n\n\"You will let me take my degree first, sir?\" said Charles.\n\n\"Certainly, take your M.A.'s if you will; but don't become an old\nFellow. Don't wait till forty; people make the strangest mistakes.\"\n\n\"Dear Charles will make a kind and affectionate husband, I am sure,\"\nsaid his mother, \"when the time comes; and come it will, though not just\nyet. Yes, my dear boy,\" she added, nodding at him, \"you will not be able\nto escape your destiny, when it comes.\"\n\n\"Charles, you must know,\" said Mr. Reding to his guest, \"is romantic in\nhis notions just now. I believe it is that he thinks no one good enough\nfor him. Oh, my dear Charlie, don't let me pain you, I meant nothing\nserious; but somehow he has not hit it off very well with some young\nladies here, who expected more attention than he cared to give.\"\n\n\"I am sure,\" said Mary, \"Charles is most attentive whenever there is\noccasion, and always has his eyes about him to do a service; only he's a\nbad hand at small-talk.\"\n\n\"All will come in time, my dear,\" said his mother; \"a good son makes a\ngood husband.\"\n\n\"And a very loving papa,\" said Mr. Malcolm.\n\n\"Oh, spare me, sir,\" said poor Charles; \"how have I deserved this?\"\n\n\"Well,\" proceeded Mr. Malcolm, \"and young ladies ought to marry betimes\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Come, Mary, _your_ turn is coming,\" cried Charles; and taking his\nsister's hand, he threw up the sash, and escaped with her into the\ngarden.\n\nThey crossed the lawn, and took refuge in a shrubbery. \"How strange it\nis!\" said Mary, as they strolled along the winding walk; \"we used to\nlike Mr. Malcolm so, as children; but now--I like him _still_, but he is\nnot the same.\"\n\n\"We are older,\" said her brother; \"different things take us now.\"\n\n\"He used to be so kind,\" continued she; \"when he was coming, the day was\nlooked out for; and mamma said, 'Take care you be good when Mr. Malcolm\ncomes.' And he was sure to bring a twelfth-cake, or a Noah's ark, or\nsomething of the sort. And then he romped with us, and let us make fun\nof him.\"\n\n\"Indeed it isn't he that is changed,\" said Charles, \"but we; we are in\nthe time of life to change; we have changed already, and shall change\nstill.\"\n\n\"What a mercy it is,\" said his sister, \"that we are so happy among\nourselves as a family! If we change, we shall change together, as apples\nof one stock; if one fails, the other does. Thus we are always the same\nto each other.\"\n\n\"It is a mercy, indeed,\" said Charles; \"we are so blest that I am\nsometimes quite frightened.\"\n\nHis sister looked earnestly at him. He laughed a little to turn off the\nedge of his seriousness. \"You would know what I mean, dear Mary, if you\nhad read Herodotus. A Greek tyrant feared his own excessive prosperity,\nand therefore made a sacrifice to fortune. I mean, he gave up something\nwhich he held most precious; he took a ring from his finger and cast it\ninto the sea, lest the Deity should afflict him, if he did not afflict\nhimself.\"\n\n\"My dear Charles,\" she answered, \"if we do but enjoy God's gifts\nthankfully, and take care not to set our hearts on them or to abuse\nthem, we need not fear for their continuance.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"there's one text which has ever dwelt on my mind,\n'Rejoice with trembling.' I can't take full, unrestrained pleasure in\nanything.\"\n\n\"Why not, if you look at it as God's gift?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"I don't defend it,\" he replied; \"it's my way; it may be a selfish\nprudence, for what I know; but I am sure that, did I give my heart to\nany creature, I should be withdrawing it from God. How easily could I\nidolize these sweet walks, which we have known for so many years!\"\n\nThey walked on in silence. \"Well,\" said Mary, \"whatever we lose, no\nchange can affect us as a family. While we are we, we are to each other\nwhat nothing external can be to us, whether as given or as taken away.\"\n\nCharles made no answer.\n\n\"What has come to you, dear Charles?\" she said, stopping and looking at\nhim; then, gently removing his hair and smoothing his forehead, she\nsaid, \"you are so sad to-day.\"\n\n\"Dearest Mary,\" he made answer, \"nothing's the matter, indeed. I think\nit is Mr. Malcolm who has put me out. It's so stupid to talk of the\nprospects of a boy like me. Don't look so, I mean nothing; only it\nannoys me.\"\n\nMary smiled.\n\n\"What I mean is,\" continued Charles, \"that we can rely on nothing here,\nand are fools if we build on the future.\"\n\n\"We can rely on each other,\" she repeated.\n\n\"Ah, dear Mary, don't say so; it frightens me.\"\n\nShe looked round at him surprised, and almost frightened herself.\n\n\"Dearest,\" he continued, \"I mean nothing; only everything is so\nuncertain here below.\"\n\n\"We are sure of each other, Charles.\"\n\n\"Yes, Mary,\" and he kissed her affectionately, \"it is true, most true;\"\nthen he added, \"all I meant was that it seems presumptuous to say so.\nDavid and Jonathan were parted; St. Paul and St. Barnabas.\"\n\nTears stood in Mary's eyes.\n\n\"Oh, what an ass I am,\" he said, \"for thus teasing you about nothing;\nno, I only mean that there is One _only_ who cannot die, who never\nchanges, only One. It can't be wrong to remember this. Do you recollect\nCowper's beautiful lines? I know them without having learned them--they\nstruck me so much the first time I read them;\" and he repeated them:--\n\n    Thou art the source and centre of all minds,\n    Their only point of rest, Eternal Word.\n    From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove\n    At random, without honour, hope, or peace.\n    From Thee is all that soothes the life of man,\n    His high endeavour and his glad success,\n    His strength to suffer and his will to serve.\n    But oh, Thou Sovereign Giver of all good,\n    Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown;\n    Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor,\n    And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nOctober came at length, and with it Charles's thoughts were turned again\nto Oxford. One or two weeks passed by; then a few days; and it was time\nto be packing. His father parted with him with even greater emotion than\nwhen he first went to school. He would himself drive him in the phaeton\nto the neighbouring town, from which the omnibus ran to the railroad,\nthough he had the gout flying about him; and when the moment for parting\ncame he could not get himself to give up his hand, as if he had\nsomething to say which he could not recollect or master.\n\n\"Well, Christmas will soon come,\" he said; \"we must part, it's no use\ndelaying it. Write to us soon, dear boy; and tell us all about yourself\nand your matters. Tell us about your friends; they are nice young men\napparently: but I have great confidence in your prudence; you have more\nprudence than some of them. Your tutor seems a valuable man, from what\nyou tell me,\" he went on repeating what had passed between him and\nCharles many times before; \"a sound, well-judging man, that Mr. Vincent.\nSheffield is too clever; he is young; you have an older head. It's no\ngood my going on; I have said all this before; and you may be late for\nthe train. Well, God bless you, my dearest Charlie, and make you a\nblessing. May you be happier and better than your father! I have ever\nbeen blest all my life long--wonderfully blest. Blessings have been\npoured on me from my youth, far above my deserts; may they be doubled\nupon you! Good-bye, my beloved Charles, good-bye!\"\n\nCharles had to pass a day or two at the house of a relative who lived a\nlittle way out of London. While he was there a letter arrived for him,\nforwarded from home; it was from Willis, dated from London, and\nannounced that he had come to a very important decision, and should not\nreturn to Oxford. Charles was fairly in the world again, plunged into\nthe whirl of opinions: how sad a contrast to his tranquil home! There\nwas no mistaking what the letter meant; and he set out at once with the\nchance of finding the writer at the house from which he dated it. It was\na lodging at the west-end of town; and he reached it about noon.\n\nHe found Willis in company with a person apparently two or three years\nolder. Willis started on seeing him.\n\n\"Who would have thought! what brings you here?\" he said; \"I thought you\nwere in the country.\" Then to his companion, \"This is the friend I was\nspeaking to you about, Morley. A happy meeting; sit down, dear Reding; I\nhave much to tell you.\"\n\nCharles sat down all suspense, looking at Willis with such keen anxiety\nthat the latter was forced to cut the matter short. \"Reding, I am a\nCatholic.\"\n\nCharles threw himself back in his chair, and turned pale.\n\n\"My dear Reding, what is the matter with you? why don't you speak to\nme?\"\n\nCharles was still silent; at last, stooping forward, with his elbows on\nhis knees, and his head on his hands, he said, in a low voice, \"O\nWillis, what have you done!\"\n\n\"Done?\" said Willis; \"what _you_ should do, and half Oxford besides. O\nReding, I'm so happy!\"\n\n\"Alas, alas!\" said Charles; \"but what is the good of my staying?--all\ngood attend you, Willis; good-bye!\"\n\n\"No, my good Reding, you don't leave me so soon, having found me so\nunexpectedly; and you have had a long walk, I dare say; sit down,\nthere's a good fellow; we shall have luncheon soon, and you must not go\nwithout taking your part in it.\" He took Charles's hat from him, as he\nspoke; and Charles, in a mixture of feelings, let him have his way.\n\n\"O Willis, so you have separated yourself from us for ever!\" he said;\n\"you have taken your course, we keep ours: our paths are different.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said Willis; \"you must follow me, and we shall be one still.\"\n\nCharles was half offended; \"Really I must go,\" he said, and he rose;\n\"you must not talk in that manner.\"\n\n\"Pray, forgive me,\" answered Willis; \"I won't do so again; but I could\nnot help it; I am not in a common state, I'm so happy!\"\n\nA thought struck Reding. \"Tell me, Willis,\" he said, \"your exact\nposition; in what sense are you a Catholic? What is to prevent your\nreturning with me to Oxford?\"\n\nHis companion interposed: \"I am taking a liberty perhaps,\" he said; \"but\nMr. Willis has been regularly received into the Catholic Church.\"\n\n\"I have not introduced you,\" said Willis. \"Reding, let me introduce Mr.\nMorley; Morley, Mr. Reding. Yes, Reding, I owe it to him that I am a\nCatholic. I have been on a tour with him abroad. We met with a good\npriest in France, who consented to receive my abjuration.\"\n\n\"Well, I think he might profitably have examined into your state of mind\na little before he did so,\" said Reding; \"_you_ are not the person to\nbecome a Catholic, Willis.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\"\n\n\"Because,\" answered Reding, \"you are more of a Dissenter than a\nCatholic. I beg your pardon,\" he added, seeing Willis look up sharply,\n\"let me be frank with you, pray do. You were attached to the Church of\nRome, not as a child to a mother, but in a wayward roving way, as a\nmatter of fancy or liking, or (excuse me) as a greedy boy to something\nnice; and you pursued your object by disobeying the authorities set over\nyou.\"\n\nIt was as much as Willis could bear; he said, he thought he recollected\na text about \"obeying God _rather_ than men.\"\n\n\"I _see_ you have disobeyed men,\" retorted Charles; \"I _trust_ you have\nbeen obeying God.\"\n\nWillis thought him rude, and would not speak.\n\nMr. Morley began: \"If you knew the circumstances better,\" he said, \"you\nwould doubtless judge differently. I consider Mr. Willis to be just the\nvery person on whom it was incumbent to join the Church, and who will\nmake an excellent Catholic. You must blame, not the venerable priest who\nreceived him, but me. The good man saw his devotion, his tears, his\nhumility, his earnest desire; but the state of his mind he learned\nthrough me, who speak French better than Mr. Willis. However, he had\nquite enough conversation with him in French and Latin. He could not\nreject a postulant for salvation; it was impossible. Had you been he,\nyou would have done the same.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, perhaps I have been unjust to him and you,\" said Charles;\n\"however, I cannot augur well of this.\"\n\n\"You are judging, sir,\" answered Mr. Morley, \"let me say it, of things\nyou do not know. You do not know what the Catholic religion is, you do\nnot know what its grace is, or the gift of faith.\"\n\nThe speaker was a layman; he spoke with earnestness the more intense,\nbecause quiet. Charles felt himself reproved by his manner; his good\ntaste suggested to him that he had been too vehement in the presence of\na stranger; yet he did not feel the less confidence in his cause. He\npaused before he answered; then he said briefly, that he was aware that\nhe did not know the Roman Catholic religion, but he knew Mr. Willis. He\ncould not help giving his opinion that good would not come of it.\n\n\"_I_ have ever been a Catholic,\" said Mr. Morley; \"so far I cannot judge\nof members of the Church of England; but this I know, that the Catholic\nChurch is the only true Church. I may be wrong in many things; I cannot\nbe wrong in this. This too I know, that the Catholic faith is one, and\nthat no other Church has faith. The Church of England has no faith. You,\nmy dear sir, have not faith.\"\n\nThis was a home-thrust; the controversies of Oxford passed before\nReding's mind; but he instantly recovered himself. \"You cannot expect,\"\nsaid he, smiling, \"that I, almost a boy, should be able to argue with\nyourself, or to defend my Church or to explain her faith. I am content\nto hold that faith, to hold what she holds, without professing to be a\ndivine. This is the doctrine which I have been taught at Oxford. I am\nunder teaching there, I am not yet taught. Excuse me, then, if I decline\nan argument with you. With Mr. Willis, it is natural that I should\nargue; we are equals, and understand each other; but I am no\ntheologian.\"\n\nHere Willis cried out, \"O my dear Reding, what I say is, 'Come and see.'\nDon't stand at the door arguing; but enter the great home of the soul,\nenter and adore.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Reding, \"surely God wills us to be guided by reason; I don't\nmean that reason is everything, but it is at least something. Surely we\nought not to act without it, against it.\"\n\n\"But is not doubt a dreadful state?\" said Willis; \"a most perilous\nstate? No state is safe but that of faith. Can it be safe to be without\nfaith? Now _have_ you faith in your Church? I know you well enough to\nknow you have not; where, then, are you?\"\n\n\"Willis, you have misunderstood me most extraordinarily,\" said Charles:\n\"ten thousand thoughts pass through the mind, and if it is safe to note\ndown and bring against a man his stray words, I suppose there's nothing\nhe mayn't be accused of holding. You must be alluding to some\nhalf-sentence or other of mine, which I have forgotten, and which was no\nreal sample of my sentiments. Do you mean I have no worship? and does\nnot worship presuppose faith? I have much to learn, I am conscious; but\nI wish to learn it from the Church under whose shadow my lot is cast,\nand with whom I am content.\"\n\n\"He confesses,\" said Willis, \"that he has no faith; he confesses that he\nis in doubt. My dear Reding, can you sincerely plead that you are in\ninvincible ignorance after what has passed between us? now, suppose for\nan instant that Catholicism is true, is it not certain that you now have\nan opportunity of embracing it? and if you do not, are you in a state to\ndie in?\"\n\nReding was perplexed how to answer; that is, he could not with the\nnecessary quickness analyze and put into words the answer which his\nreason suggested to Willis's rapid interrogatories. Mr. Morley had kept\nsilence, lest Charles should have two upon him at once; but when Willis\npaused, and Charles did not reply, he interposed. He said that all the\ncalls in Scripture were obeyed with promptitude by those who were\ncalled; and that our Lord would not suffer one man even to go and bury\nhis father. Reding answered, that in those cases the voice of Christ was\nactually heard; He was on earth, in bodily presence; now, however, the\nvery question was, _which_ was the voice of Christ; and whether the\nChurch of Rome did or did not speak with the voice of Christ;--that\nsurely we ought to act prudently; that Christ could not wish us to act\notherwise; that, for himself, he had no doubt that he was in the place\nwhere Providence wished him to be; but, even if he had any doubts\nwhether Christ was calling him elsewhere (which he had not), but if he\nhad, he should certainly think that Christ called him in the way and\nmethod of careful examination,--that prudence was the divinely appointed\nmeans of coming at the truth.\n\n\"Prudence!\" cried Willis, \"such prudence as St. Thomas's, I suppose,\nwhen he determined to see before believing.\"\n\nCharles hesitated to answer.\n\n\"I see it,\" continued Willis; and, starting up, he seized his arm;\n\"come, my dear fellow, come with me directly; let us go to the good\npriest who lives two streets off. You shall be received this very day.\nOn with your hat.\" And, before Charles could show any resistance, he was\nhalf out of the room.\n\nHe could not help laughing, in spite of his vexation; he disengaged his\narm, and deliberately sat down. \"Not so fast,\" he said; \"we are not\nquite this sort of person.\"\n\nWillis looked awkward for a moment; then he said, \"Well, at least you\nmust go into a retreat; you must go forthwith. Morley, do you know when\nMr. de Mowbray or Father Agostino gives his next retreat? Reding, it is\njust what you want, just what all Oxford men want; I think you will not\nrefuse me.\"\n\nCharles looked up in his face, and smiled. \"It is not my line,\" he said\nat length. \"I am on my way to Oxford. I must go. I came here to be of\nuse to you; I can be of none, so I must go. Would I _could_ be of\nservice; but it is hopeless. Oh, it makes my heart ache!\" And he went on\nbrushing his hat with his glove, as if on the point of rising, yet loth\nto rise.\n\nMorley now struck in: he spoke all along like a gentleman, and a man of\nreal piety, but with a great ignorance of Protestants, or how they were\nto be treated.\n\n\"Excuse me, Mr. Reding,\" he said, \"if before you go, I say one word. I\nfeel very much for the struggle which is going on in your mind; and I am\nsure it is not for such as me to speak harshly or unkindly to you. The\nstruggle between conviction and motives of this world is often long; may\nit have a happy termination in your case! Do not be offended if I\nsuggest to you that the dearest and closest ties, such as your connexion\nwith the Protestant Church involves, may be on the side of the world in\ncertain cases. It is a sort of martyrdom to have to break such; but they\nwho do so have a martyr's reward. And, then, at a University you have so\nmany inducements to fall in with the prevailing tone of thought;\nprospects, success in life, good opinion of friends--all these things\nare against you. They are likely to choke the good seed. Well, I could\nhave wished that you had been able to follow the dictates of conscience\nat once; but the conflict must continue its appointed time; we will\nhope that all will end well.\"\n\n\"I can't persuade these good people,\" thought Charles, as he closed the\nstreet-door after him, \"that I am not in a state of conviction, and\nstruggling against it; how absurd! Here I come to reclaim a deserter,\nand I am seized even bodily, and against my will all but hurried into a\nprofession of faith. Do these things happen to people every day? or is\nthere some particular fate with me thus to be brought across religious\ncontroversies which I am not up to? I a Roman Catholic! what a contrast\nall this with quiet Hartley!\" naming his home. As he continued to think\non what had passed he was still less satisfied with it or with himself.\nHe had gone to lecture, and he had been lectured; and he had let out his\nsecret state of mind: no, not let out, he had nothing to let out. He had\nindeed implied that he was inquiring after religious truth, but every\nProtestant inquires; he would not be a Protestant if he did not. Of\ncourse he was seeking the truth; it was his duty to do so; he\nrecollected distinctly his tutor laying down, on one occasion, the duty\nof private judgment. This was the very difference between Protestants\nand Catholics; Catholics begin with faith, Protestants with inquiry; and\nhe ought to have said this to Willis. He was provoked he had not said\nit; it would have simplified the question, and shown how far he was from\nbeing unsettled. Unsettled! it was most extravagant. He wished this had\nbut struck him during the conversation, but it was a relief that it\nstruck him now; it reconciled him to his position.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nThe first day of Michaelmas term is, to an undergraduate's furniture,\nthe brightest day of the year. Much as Charles regretted home, he\nrejoiced to see old Oxford again. The porter had acknowledged him at the\ngate, and the scout had smiled and bowed, as he ran up the worn\nstaircase and found a blazing fire to welcome him. The coals crackled\nand split, and threw up a white flame in strong contrast with the\nnewly-blackened bars and hobs of the grate. A shining copper kettle\nhissed and groaned under the internal torment of water at boiling point.\nThe chimney-glass had been cleaned, the carpet beaten, the curtains\nfresh glazed. A tea-tray and tea commons were placed on the table;\nbesides a battel paper, two or three cards from tradesmen who desired\nhis patronage, and a note from a friend whose term had already\ncommenced. The porter came in with his luggage, and had just received\nhis too ample remuneration, when, through the closing door, in rushed\nSheffield in his travelling dress.\n\n\"Well, old fellow, how are you?\" he said, shaking both of Charles's\nhands, or rather arms, with all his might; \"here we are all again; I am\njust come like you. Where have you been all this time? Come, tell us\nall about yourself. Give me some tea, and let's have a good jolly chat.\"\nCharles liked Sheffield, he liked Oxford, he was pleased to get back;\nyet he had some remains of home-sickness on him, and was not quite in\ncue for Sheffield's good-natured boisterousness. Willis's matter, too,\nwas still on his mind. \"Have you heard the news?\" said Sheffield; \"I\nhave been long enough in college to pick it up. The kitchen-man was full\nof it as I passed along. Jack's a particular friend of mine, a good\nhonest fellow, and has all the gossip of the place. I don't know what it\nmeans, but Oxford has just now a very bad inside. The report is, that\nsome of the men have turned Romans; and they say that there are\nstrangers going about Oxford whom no one knows anything of. Jack, who is\na bit of a divine himself, says he heard the Principal say that, for\ncertain, there were Jesuits at the bottom of it; and I don't know what\nhe means, but he declares he saw with his own eyes the Pope walking down\nHigh Street with the priest. I asked him how he knew it; he said he knew\nthe Pope by his slouching hat and his long beard; and the porter told\nhim it was the Pope. The Dons have met several times; and several tutors\nare to be discommoned, and their names stuck up against the\nbuttery-door. Meanwhile the Marshal, with two bulldogs, is keeping guard\nbefore the Catholic chapel; and, to complete it, that old drunken fellow\nTopham is reported, out of malice, when called in to cut the Warden of\nSt. Mary's hair, to have made a clean white tonsure atop of him.\"\n\n\"My dear Sheffield, how you run on!\" said Reding. \"Well, do you know, I\ncan tell you a piece of real news bearing on these reports, and not of\nthe pleasantest. Did you know Willis of St. George's?\"\n\n\"I think I once saw him at wine in your rooms; a modest, nice-looking\nfellow, who never spoke a word.\"\n\n\"Ah, I assure you, he has a tongue in his head when it suits him,\"\nanswered Charles: \"yet I do think,\" he added, musingly, \"he's very much\nchanged, and not for the better.\"\n\n\"Well, what's the upshot?\" asked Sheffield.\n\n\"He has turned Catholic,\" said Charles.\n\n\"What a fool!\" cried Sheffield.\n\nThere was a pause. Charles felt awkward: then he said, \"I can't say I\nwas surprised; yet I should have been less surprised at White.\"\n\n\"Oh, White won't turn Catholic,\" said Sheffield; \"he hasn't it in him.\nHe's a coward.\"\n\n\"Fools and cowards!\" answered Charles: \"thus you divide the world,\nSheffield? Poor Willis!\" he added; \"one must respect a man who acts\naccording to his conscience.\"\n\n\"What can he know of conscience?\" said Sheffield; \"the idea of his\nswallowing, of his own free-will, the heap of rubbish which every\nCatholic has to believe! in cold blood tying a collar round his neck,\nand politely putting the chain into the hands of a priest!... And then\nthe Confessional! 'Tis marvellous!\" and he began to break the coals with\nthe poker. \"It's very well,\" he continued, \"if a man is born a Catholic;\nI don't suppose they really believe what they are obliged to profess;\nbut how an Englishman, a gentleman, a man here at Oxford, with all his\nadvantages, can so eat dirt, scraping and picking up all the dead lies\nof the dark ages--it's a miracle!\"\n\n\"Well, if there is anything that recommends Romanism to me,\" said\nCharles, \"it is what you so much dislike: I'd give twopence, if some\none, whom I could trust, would say to me, 'This is true; this is not\ntrue.' We should be saved this eternal wrangling. Wouldn't you be glad\nif St. Paul could come to life? I've often said to myself, 'Oh, that I\ncould ask St. Paul this or that!'\"\n\n\"But the Catholic Church isn't St. Paul quite, I guess,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Certainly not; but supposing you _did_ think it had the inspiration of\nan Apostle, as the Roman Catholics do, what a comfort it would be to\nknow, beyond all doubt, what to believe about God, and how to worship\nand please Him! I mean, _you_ said, 'I can't believe this or that;' now\nyou ought to have said, 'I can't believe the Pope has _power_ to\n_decide_ this or that.' If he had, you ought to believe it, whatever it\nis, and not to say, 'I can't believe.'\"\n\nSheffield looked hard at him: \"We shall have you a papist some of these\nfine days,\" said he.\n\n\"Nonsense,\" answered Charles; \"you shouldn't say such things, even in\njest.\"\n\n\"I don't jest; I am in earnest: you are plainly on the road.\"\n\n\"Well, if I am, you have put me on it,\" said Reding, wishing to get away\nfrom the subject as quick as he could; \"for you are ever talking\nagainst shams, and laughing at King Charles and Laud, Bateman, White,\nrood-lofts, and piscinas.\"\n\n\"Now you are a Puseyite,\" said Sheffield in surprise.\n\n\"You give me the name of a very good man, whom I hardly know by sight,\"\nsaid Reding; \"but I mean, that nobody knows what to believe, no one has\na definite faith, but the Catholics and the Puseyites; no one says,\n'This is true, that is false; this comes from the Apostles, that does\nnot.'\"\n\n\"Then would you believe a Turk,\" asked Sheffield, \"who came to you with\nhis 'One Allah, and Mahomet his Prophet'?\"\n\n\"I did not say a creed was everything,\" answered Reding, \"or that a\nreligion could not be false which had a creed; but a religion can't be\ntrue which has none.\"\n\n\"Well, somehow that doesn't strike me,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Now there was Vincent at the end of term, after you had gone down,\"\ncontinued Charles; \"you know I stayed up for Littlego; and he was very\ncivil, very civil indeed. I had a talk with him about Oxford parties,\nand he pleased me very much at the time; but afterwards, the more I\nthought of what he said, the less was I satisfied; that is, I had got\nnothing definite from him. He did not say, 'This is true, that is\nfalse;' but 'Be true, be true, be good, be good, don't go too far, keep\nin the mean, have your eyes about you, eschew parties, follow our\ndivines, all of them;'--all which was but putting salt on the bird's\ntail. I want some practical direction, not abstract truths.\"\n\n\"Vincent is a humbug,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Dr. Pusey, on the other hand,\" continued Charles, \"is said always to be\ndecisive. He says, 'This is Apostolic, that's in the Fathers; St.\nCyprian says this, St. Augustine denies that; this is safe, that's\nwrong; I bid you, I forbid you.' I understand all this; but I don't\nunderstand having duties put on me which are too much for me. I don't\nunderstand, I dislike, having a will of my own, when I have not the\nmeans to use it justly. In such a case, to tell me to act of myself, is\nlike Pharaoh setting the Israelites to make bricks without straw.\nSetting me to inquire, to judge, to decide, forsooth! it's absurd; who\nhas taught me?\"\n\n\"But the Puseyites are not always so distinct,\" said Sheffield; \"there's\nSmith, he never speaks decidedly in difficult questions. I know a man\nwho was going to remain in Italy for some years, at a distance from any\nEnglish chapel,--he could not help it,--and who came to ask him if he\nmight communicate in the Catholic churches; he could not get an answer\nfrom him; he would not say yes or no.\"\n\n\"Then he won't have many followers, that's all,\" said Charles.\n\n\"But he has more than Dr. Pusey,\" answered Sheffield.\n\n\"Well, I can't understand it,\" said Charles; \"he ought not; perhaps they\nwon't stay.\"\n\n\"The truth is,\" said Sheffield, \"I suspect he is more of a sceptic at\nbottom.\"\n\n\"Well, I honour the man who builds up,\" said Reding, \"and I despise the\nman who breaks down.\"\n\n\"I am inclined to think you have a wrong notion of building up and\npulling down,\" answered Sheffield; \"Coventry, in his 'Dissertations,'\nmakes it quite clear that Christianity is not a religion of doctrines.\"\n\n\"Who is Coventry?\"\n\n\"Not know Coventry? he is one of the most original writers of the day;\nhe's an American, and, I believe, a congregationalist. Oh, I assure you,\nyou should read Coventry, although he is wrong on the question of\nChurch-government: you are not well _au courant_ with the literature of\nthe day unless you do. He is no party man; he is a correspondent of the\nfirst men of the day; he stopped with the Dean of Oxford when he was in\nEngland, who has published an English edition of his 'Dissertations,'\nwith a Preface; and he and Lord Newlights were said to be the two most\nwitty men at the meeting of the British Association, two years ago.\"\n\n\"I don't like Lord Newlights,\" said Charles, \"he seems to me to have no\nprinciple; that is, no fixed, definite religious principle. You don't\nknow where to find him. This is what my father thinks; I have often\nheard him speak of him.\"\n\n\"It's curious you should use the word _principle_,\" said Sheffield; \"for\nit is that which Coventry lays such stress on. He says that Christianity\nhas no creed; that this is the very point in which it is distinguished\nfrom other religions; that you will search the New Testament in vain for\na creed; but that Scripture is full of _principles_. The view is very\ningenious, and seemed to me true, when I read the book. According to\nhim, then, Christianity is not a religion of doctrines or mysteries; and\nif you are looking for dogmatism in Scripture, it's a mistake.\"\n\nCharles was puzzled. \"Certainly,\" he said, \"at first sight there _is_ no\ncreed in Scripture.--No creed in Scripture,\" he said slowly, as if\nthinking aloud; \"no creed in Scripture, _therefore_ there is no creed.\nBut the Athanasian Creed,\" he added quickly, \"is _that_ in Scripture? It\neither _is_ in Scripture, or it is _not_. Let me see, it either is\nthere, or it is not.... What was it that Freeborn said last term?...\nTell me, Sheffield, would the Dean of Oxford say that the Creed was in\nScripture or not? perhaps you do not fairly explain Coventry's view;\nwhat is your impression?\"\n\n\"Why, I will tell you frankly, my impression is, judging from his\nPreface, that he would not scruple to say that it is not in Scripture,\nbut a scholastic addition.\"\n\n\"My dear fellow,\" said Charles, \"do you mean that he, a dignitary of the\nChurch, would say that the Athanasian Creed was a mistake, because it\nrepresented Christianity as a revelation of doctrines or mysteries to be\nreceived on faith?\"\n\n\"Well, I may be wrong,\" said Sheffield, \"but so I understood him.\"\n\n\"After all,\" said Charles sadly, \"it's not so much more than that other\nDean, I forget his name, said at St. Mary's before the Vacation; it's\npart of the same system. Oh, it was after you went down, or just at the\nend of term: you don't go to sermons; I'm inclined not to go either. I\ncan't enter upon the Dean's argument; it's not worth while. Well,\" he\nadded, standing up and stretching himself, \"I am tired with the day, yet\nit has not been a fatiguing one either; but London is so bustling a\nplace.\"\n\n\"You wish me to say good-night,\" said Sheffield. Charles did not deny\nthe charge; and the friends parted.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nThere could not have been a lecture more unfavourable for Charles's\npeace of mind than that in which he found himself this term placed; yet,\nso blind are we to the future, he hailed it with great satisfaction, as\nif it was to bring him an answer to the perplexities into which\nSheffield, Bateman, Freeborn, White, Willis, Mr. Morley, Dr. Brownside,\nMr. Vincent, and the general state of Oxford, had all, in one way or\nother, conspired to throw him. He had shown such abilities in the former\npart of the year, and was reading so diligently, that his tutors put him\nprematurely into the lecture upon the Articles. It was a capital lecture\nso far as this, that the tutor who gave it had got up his subject\ncompletely. He knew the whole history of the Articles, how they grew\ninto their present shape, with what fortunes, what had been added, and\nwhen, and what omitted. With this, of course, was joined an explanation\nof the text, as deduced, as far as could be, from the historical account\nthus given. Not only the British, but the foreign Reformers were\nintroduced; and nothing was wanting, at least in the intention of the\nlecturer, for fortifying the young inquirer in the doctrine and\ndiscipline of the Church of England.\n\nIt did not produce this effect on Reding. Whether he had expected too\nmuch, or whatever was the cause, so it was that he did but feel more\nvividly the sentiment of the old father in the comedy, after consulting\nthe lawyers, \"_Incertior sum multo quam ante_.\" He saw that the\nprofession of faith contained in the Articles was but a patchwork of\nbits of orthodoxy, Lutheranism, Calvinism, and Zuinglism; and this too\non no principle; that it was but the work of accident, if there be such\na thing as accident; that it had come down in the particular shape in\nwhich the English Church now receives it, when it might have come down\nin any other shape; that it was but a toss-up that Anglicans at this day\nwere not Calvinists, or Presbyterians, or Lutherans, equally well as\nEpiscopalians. This historical fact did but clench the difficulty, or\nrather impossibility, of saying what the faith of the English Church\nwas. On almost every point of dispute the authoritative standard of\ndoctrine was vague or inconsistent, and there was an imposing weight of\nexternal testimony in favour of opposite interpretations. He stopped\nafter lecture once or twice, and asked information of Mr. Upton, the\ntutor, who was quite ready to give it; but nothing came of these\napplications as regards the object which led him to make them.\n\nOne difficulty which Charles experienced was to know whether, according\nto the Articles, Divine truth was directly _given_ us, or whether we had\nto _seek_ it for ourselves from Scripture. Several Articles led to this\nquestion; and Mr. Upton, who was a High Churchman, answered him that the\nsaving doctrine neither was _given_ nor was to be _sought_, but that it\nwas _proposed_ by the Church, and _proved_ by the individual. Charles\ndid not see this distinction between _seeking_ and _proving_; for how\ncan we _prove_ except by _seeking_ (in Scripture) for _reasons_? He put\nthe question in another form, and asked if the Christian Religion\nallowed of private judgment? This was no abstruse question, and a very\npractical one. Had he asked a Wesleyan or Independent, he would have had\nan unconditional answer in the affirmative; had he asked a Catholic, he\nwould have been told that we used our private judgment to find the\nChurch, and then in all matters of faith the Church superseded it; but\nfrom this Oxford divine he could not get a distinct answer. First he was\ntold that doubtless we _must_ use our judgment in the determination of\nreligious doctrine; but next he was told that it was sin (as it\nundoubtedly is) to doubt the dogma of the Blessed Trinity. Yet, while he\nwas told that to doubt of that doctrine was a sin, he was told in\nanother conversation that our highest state here is one of doubt. What\ndid this mean? Surely certainty was simply necessary on _some_ points,\nas on the Object of worship; how could we worship what we doubted of?\nThe two acts were contrasted by the Evangelist; when the disciples saw\nour Lord after the resurrection, \"they worshipped Him, _but_ some\ndoubted;\" yet, in spite of this, he was told that there was \"impatience\"\nin the very idea of desiring certainty.\n\nAt another time he asked whether the anathemas of the Athanasian Creed\napplied to all its clauses; for instance, whether it is necessary to\nsalvation to hold that there is \"_unus aeternus_\" as the Latin has it; or\n\"such as the Father, ... such the Holy Ghost;\" or that the Holy Ghost\nis \"by Himself God and Lord;\" or that Christ is one \"by the taking of\nthe manhood into God?\" He could get no answer. Mr. Upton said that he\ndid not like extreme questions; that he could not and did not wish to\nanswer them; that the Creed was written against heresies, which no\nlonger existed, as a sort of _protest_. Reding asked whether this meant\nthat the Creed did not contain a distinctive view of its own, which\nalone was safe, but was merely a negation of error. The clauses, he\nobserved, were positive, not negative. He could get no answer farther\nthan that the Creed taught that the doctrines of \"the Trinity\" and \"the\nIncarnation\" were \"necessary to salvation,\" it being apparently left\nuncertain _what_ those doctrines consisted in. One day he asked how\ngrievous sins were to be forgiven which were committed after baptism,\nwhether by faith, or not at all in this life. He was answered that the\nArticles said nothing on the subject; that the Romish doctrine of pardon\nand purgatory was false; and that it was well to avoid both curious\nquestions and subtle answers.\n\nAnother question turned up at another lecture, viz. whether the Real\nPresence meant a Presence of Christ in the elements, or in the soul,\ni.e. in the faith of the recipient; in other words, whether the Presence\nwas really such, or a mere name. Mr. Upton pronounced it an open\nquestion. Another day Charles asked whether Christ was present in fact,\nor only in effect. Mr. Upton answered decidedly \"in effect,\" which\nseemed to Reding to mean no real presence at all.\n\nHe had had some difficulty in receiving the doctrine of eternal\npunishment; it had seemed to him the hardest doctrine of Revelation.\nThen he said to himself, \"But what is faith in its very notion but an\nacceptance of the word of God when reason seems to oppose it? How is it\nfaith at all if there is nothing to try it?\" This thought fully\nsatisfied him. The only question was, _Is_ it part of the revealed word?\n\"I can believe it,\" he said, \"if I know for certain that I _ought_ to\nbelieve it; but if I am not bound to believe it, I can't believe it.\"\nAccordingly he put the question to Mr. Upton whether it was a doctrine\nof the Church of England; that is, whether it came under the\nsubscription to the Articles. He could obtain no answer. Yet if he did\n_not_ believe this doctrine, he felt the whole fabric of his faith shake\nunder him. Close upon it came the doctrine of the Atonement.\n\nIt is difficult to give instances of this kind, without producing the\nimpression on the reader's mind that Charles was forward and captious in\nhis inquiries. Certainly Mr. Upton had his own thoughts about him, but\nhe never thought his manner inconsistent with modesty and respect\ntowards himself.\n\nCharles naturally was full of the subject, and would have disclosed his\nperplexities to Sheffield, had he not had a strong anticipation that\nthis would have been making matters worse. He thought Bateman, however,\nmight be of some service, and he disburdened himself to him in the\ncourse of a country walk. What was he to do? for on his entrance he had\nbeen told that when he took his degree he should have to sign the\nArticles, not on faith as then, but on reason; yet they were\nunintelligible; and how could he prove what he could not construe?\n\nBateman seemed unwilling to talk on the subject; at last he said, \"Oh,\nmy dear Reding, you really are in an excited state of mind; I don't like\nto talk to you just now, for you will not see things in a\nstraightforward way and take them naturally. What a bug-bear you are\nconjuring up! You are in an Article lecture in your second year; and\nhardly have you commenced, but you begin to fancy what you will, or will\nnot think at the end of your time. Don't ask about the Articles now;\nwait at least till you have seen the lecture through.\"\n\n\"It really is not my way to be fussed or to fidget,\" said Charles,\n\"though I own I am not so quiet as I ought to be. I hear so many\ndifferent opinions in conversation; then I go to church, and one\npreacher deals his blows at another; lastly, I betake myself to the\nArticles, and really I cannot make out what they would teach me. For\ninstance, I cannot make out their doctrine about faith, about the\nsacraments, about predestination, about the Church, about the\ninspiration of Scripture. And their tone is so unlike the Prayer Book.\nUpton has brought this out in his lectures most clearly.\"\n\n\"Now, my most respectable friend,\" said Bateman, \"do think for a moment\nwhat men have signed the Articles. Perhaps King Charles himself;\ncertainly Laud, and all the great Bishops of his day, and of the next\ngeneration. Think of the most orthodox Bull, the singularly learned\nPearson, the eloquent Taylor, Montague, Barrow, Thorndike, good dear\nBishop Horne, and Jones of Nayland. Can't you do what they did?\"\n\n\"The argument is a very strong one,\" said Charles; \"I have felt it: you\nmean, then, I must sign on faith.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly, if necessary,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"And how am I to sign as a Master, and when I am ordained?\" asked\nCharles.\n\n\"That's what I mean by fidgeting,\" answered Bateman. \"You are not\ncontent with your day; you are reaching forward to live years hence.\"\n\nCharles laughed. \"It isn't quite that,\" he said, \"I was but testing your\nadvice; however, there's some truth in it.\" And he changed the subject.\n\nThey talked awhile on indifferent matters; but on a pause Charles's\nthoughts fell back again to the Articles. \"Tell me, Bateman,\" he said,\n\"as a mere matter of curiosity, how _you_ subscribed when you took your\ndegree.\"\n\n\"Oh, I had no difficulty at all,\" said Bateman; \"the examples of Bull\nand Pearson were enough for me.\"\n\n\"Then you signed on faith.\"\n\n\"Not exactly, but it was that thought which smoothed all difficulties.\"\n\n\"Could you have signed without it?\"\n\n\"How can you ask me the question? of course.\"\n\n\"Well, do tell me, then, what was your _ground_?\"\n\n\"Oh, I had many grounds. I can't recollect in a moment what happened\nsome time ago.\"\n\n\"Oh, then it was a matter of difficulty; indeed, you said so just now.\"\n\n\"Not at all: my only difficulty was, not about myself, but how to state\nthe matter to other people.\"\n\n\"What! some one suspected you?\"\n\n\"No, no; you are quite mistaken. I mean, for instance, the Article says\nthat we are justified by faith only; now the Protestant sense of this\nstatement is point blank opposite to our standard divines: the question\nwas, what I was to say when asked _my_ sense of it.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" said Charles; \"now tell me how you solved the problem.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't deny that the Protestant sense is heretical,\" answered\nBateman; \"and so is the Protestant sense of many other things in the\nArticles; but then we need not take them in the Protestant sense.\"\n\n\"Then in what sense?\"\n\n\"Why, first,\" said Bateman, \"we need not take them in any sense at all.\nDon't smile; listen. Great authorities, such as Laud or Bramhall, seem\nto have considered that we only sign the Articles as articles of peace;\nnot as really holding them, but as not opposing them. Therefore, when we\nsign the Articles, we only engage not to preach against them.\"\n\nReding thought; then he said: \"Tell me, Bateman, would not this view of\nsubscription to the Articles let the Unitarians into the Church?\"\n\nBateman allowed it would, but the Liturgy would still keep them out.\nCharles then went on to suggest that _they_ would take the Liturgy as a\nLiturgy of peace too. Bateman began again.\n\n\"If you want some tangible principle,\" he said, \"for interpreting\nArticles and Liturgy, I can give you one. You know,\" he continued, after\na short pause, \"what it is _we_ hold? Why, we give the Articles a\nCatholic interpretation.\"\n\nCharles looked inquisitive.\n\n\"It is plain,\" continued Bateman, \"that no document can be a dead\nletter; it must be the expression of some mind; and the question here\nis, _whose_ is what may be called the voice which speaks the Articles.\nNow, if the Bishops, Heads of houses, and other dignitaries and\nauthorities were unanimous in their religious views, and one and all\nsaid that the Articles meant this and not that, they, as the imponents,\nwould have a right to interpret them; and the Articles would mean what\nthose great men said they meant. But they do not agree together; some of\nthem are diametrically opposed to others. One clergyman denies\nApostolical Succession, another affirms it; one denies the Lutheran\njustification, another maintains it; one denies the inspiration of\nScripture, a second holds Calvin to be a saint, a third considers the\ndoctrine of sacramental grace a superstition, a fourth takes part with\nNestorius against the Church, a fifth is a Sabellian. It is plain, then,\nthat the Articles have no sense at all, if the collective voice of\nBishops, Deans, Professors, and the like is to be taken. They cannot\nsupply what schoolmen call the _form_ of the Articles. But perhaps the\nwriters themselves of the Articles will supply it? No; for, first, we\ndon't know for certain who the writers were; and next, the Articles have\ngone through so many hands, and so many mendings, that some at least of\nthe original authors would not like to be responsible for them. Well,\nlet us go to the Convocations which ratified them: but they, too, were\nof different sentiments; the seventeenth century did not hold the\ndoctrine of the sixteenth. Such is the state of the case. On the other\nhand, _we_ say that if the Anglican Church be a part of the one Church\nCatholic, it must, from the necessity of the case, hold Catholic\ndoctrine. Therefore, the whole Catholic Creed, the acknowledged doctrine\nof the Fathers, of St. Ignatius, St. Cyprian, St. Augustin, St. Ambrose,\nis the _form_, is the one true sense and interpretation of the Articles.\nThey may be ambiguous in themselves; they may have been worded with\nvarious intentions by the individuals concerned in their composition;\nbut these are accidents; the Church knows nothing of individuals; she\ninterprets herself.\"\n\nReding took some time to think over this. \"All this,\" he said, \"proceeds\non the fundamental principle that the Church of England is an integral\npart of that visible body of which St. Ignatius, St. Cyprian, and the\nrest were Bishops; according to the words of Scripture, 'one body, one\nfaith.'\"\n\nBateman assented; Charles proceeded: \"Then the Articles must not be\nconsidered primarily as teaching; they have no one sense in themselves;\nthey are confessedly ambiguous: they are compiled from heterogeneous\nsources; but all this does not matter, for all must be interpreted by\nthe teaching of the Catholic Church.\"\n\nBateman agreed in the main, except that Reding had stated the case\nrather too strongly.\n\n\"But what if their letter _contradicts_ a doctrine of the Fathers? am I\nto force the letter?\"\n\n\"If such a case actually happened, the theory would not hold,\" answered\nBateman; \"it would only be a gross quibble. You can in no case sign an\nArticle in a sense which its words will not bear. But, fortunately, or\nrather providentially, this is not the case; we have merely to explain\nambiguities, and harmonize discrepancies. The Catholic interpretation\ndoes no greater violence to the text than _any other_ rule of\ninterpretation will be found to do.\"\n\n\"Well, but I know nothing of the Fathers,\" said Charles; \"others too are\nin the same condition; how am I to learn practically to interpret the\nArticles?\"\n\n\"By the Prayer Book; the Prayer Book is the voice of the Fathers.\"\n\n\"How so?\"\n\n\"Because the Prayer Book is confessedly ancient, while the Articles are\nmodern.\"\n\nCharles kept silence again. \"It is very plausible,\" he said; he thought\non. Presently he asked: \"Is this a _received_ view?\"\n\n\"_No_ view is received,\" said Bateman; \"the Articles themselves are\nreceived, but there is no authoritative interpretation of them at all.\nThat's what I was saying just now; Bishops and Professors don't agree\ntogether.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"is it a _tolerated_ view?\"\n\n\"It has certainly been strongly opposed,\" answered Bateman; \"but it has\nnever been condemned.\"\n\n\"That is no answer,\" said Charles, who saw by Bateman's manner how the\ntruth lay. \"Does any one Bishop hold it? did any one Bishop ever hold\nit? has it ever been formally admitted as tenable by any one Bishop? is\nit a view got up to meet existing difficulties, or has it an historical\nexistence?\"\n\nBateman could give but one answer to these questions, as they were\nsuccessively put to him.\n\n\"I thought so,\" said Charles, when he had made his answer: \"I know, of\ncourse, whose view you are putting before me, though I never heard it\ndrawn out before. It is specious, certainly: I don't see but it might\nhave done, had it been tolerably sanctioned; but you have no sanction to\nshow me. It is, as it stands, a mere theory struck out by individuals.\nOur Church _might_ have adopted this mode of interpreting the Articles;\nbut from what you tell me, it certainly _has not_ done so. I am where I\nwas.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nThe thought came across Reding whether perhaps, after all, what is\ncalled Evangelical Religion was not the true Christianity: its\nprofessors, he knew, were active and influential, and in past times had\nbeen much persecuted. Freeborn had surprised and offended him at\nBateman's breakfast-party before the Vacation; yet Freeborn had a\nserious manner about him, and perhaps he had misunderstood him. The\nthought, however, passed away as suddenly as it came, and perhaps would\nnot have occurred to him again, when an accident gave him some data for\ndetermining the question.\n\nOne afternoon he was lounging in the Parks, gazing with surprise on one\nof those extraordinary lights for which the neighbourhood of Oxford is\nat that season celebrated, and which, as the sun went down, was\ncolouring Marston, Elsfield, and their half-denuded groves with a pale\ngold-and-brown hue, when he found himself overtaken and addressed by the\nsaid Freeborn _in propria persona_. Freeborn liked a _tete-a-tete_ talk\nmuch better than a dispute in a party; he felt himself at more advantage\nin long leisurely speeches, and he was soon put out of breath when he\nhad to bolt-out or edge-in his words amid the ever-varying voices of a\nbreakfast-table. He thought the present might be a good opportunity of\ndoing good to a poor youth who did not know chalk from cheese, and who,\nby his means, might be, as he would word it, \"savingly converted.\" So\nthey got into conversation, talked of Willis's step, which Freeborn\ncalled awful; and, before Charles knew where he was, he found himself\nasking Freeborn what he meant by \"faith.\"\n\n\"Faith,\" said Freeborn, \"is a Divine gift, and is the instrument of our\njustification in God's sight. We are all by nature displeasing to Him,\ntill He justifies us freely for Christ's sake. Faith is like a hand,\nappropriating personally the merits of Christ, who is our justification.\nNow, what can we want more, or have more, than those merits? Faith,\nthen, is everything, and does everything for us. You see, then, how\nimportant it is to have a right view about justification by faith only.\nIf we are sound on this capital point, everything else may take its\nchance; we shall at once see the folly of contending about ceremonies,\nabout forms of Church-government, about, I will even say, sacraments or\ncreeds. External things will, in that case, either be neglected, or will\nfind a subordinate place.\"\n\nReding observed that of course Freeborn did not mean to say that good\nworks were not necessary for obtaining God's favour; \"but if they were,\nhow was justification by faith only?\"\n\nFreeborn smiled, and said that he hoped Reding would have clearer views\nin a little time. It was a very simple matter. Faith not only justified,\nit regenerated also. It was the root of sanctification, as well as of\nDivine acceptance. The same act, which was the means of bringing us into\nGod's favour, secured our being meet for it. Thus good works were\nsecured, because faith would not be true faith unless it were such as to\nbe certain of bringing forth good works in due time.\n\nReding thought this view simple and clear, though it unpleasantly\nreminded him of Dr. Brownside. Freeborn added that it was a doctrine\nsuited to the poor, that it put all the gospel into a nutshell, that it\ndispensed with criticism, primitive ages, teachers--in short, with\nauthority in whatever form. It swept theology clean away. There was no\nneed to mention this last consequence to Charles; but he passed it by,\nwishing to try the system on its own merits.\n\n\"You speak of _true_ faith,\" he said, \"as producing good works: you say\nthat no faith justifies _but_ true faith, and true faith produces good\nworks. In other words, I suppose, faith, which is _certain to be\nfruitful_, or _fruitful_ faith, justifies. This is very like saying that\nfaith and works are the joint means of justification.\"\n\n\"Oh, no, no,\" cried Freeborn, \"that is deplorable doctrine: it is quite\nopposed to the gospel, it is anti-Christian. We are justified by faith\nonly, apart from good works.\"\n\n\"I am in an Article lecture just now,\" said Charles, \"and Upton told us\nthat we must make a distinction of _this_ kind; for instance, the Duke\nof Wellington is Chancellor of the University, but, though he is as much\nChancellor as Duke, still he sits in the House of Lords as Duke, not as\nChancellor. Thus, although faith is as truly fruitful as it is faith,\nyet it does not justify as being fruitful, but as being faith. Is this\nwhat you mean?\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Freeborn; \"that was Melancthon's doctrine; he\nexplained away a cardinal truth into a mere matter of words; he made\nfaith a mere symbol, but this is a departure from the pure gospel: faith\nis the _instrument_, not a _symbol_ of justification. It is, in truth, a\nmere _apprehension_, and nothing else: the seizing and clinging which a\nbeggar might venture on when a king passed by. Faith is as poor as Job\nin the ashes: it is like Job stripped of all pride and pomp and good\nworks: it is covered with filthy rags: it is without anything good: it\nis, I repeat, a mere apprehension. Now you see what I mean.\"\n\n\"I can't believe I understand you,\" said Charles: \"you say that to have\nfaith is to seize Christ's merits; and that we have them, if we will but\nseize them. But surely not every one who seizes them, gains them;\nbecause dissolute men, who never have a dream of thorough repentance or\nreal hatred of sin, would gladly seize and appropriate them, if they\nmight do so. They would like to get to heaven for nothing. Faith, then,\nmust be some particular _kind_ of apprehension; _what_ kind? good works\ncannot be mistaken, but an 'apprehension' may. What, then, is a true\napprehension? what _is_ faith?\"\n\n\"What need, my dear friend,\" answered Freeborn, \"of knowing\nmetaphysically what true faith is, if we have it and enjoy it? I do not\nknow what bread is, but I eat it; do I wait till a chemist analyzes it?\nNo, I eat it, and I feel the good effects afterwards. And so let us be\ncontent to know, not what faith _is_, but what it _does_, and enjoy our\nblessedness in possessing it.\"\n\n\"I really don't want to introduce metaphysics,\" said Charles, \"but I\nwill adopt your own image. Suppose I suspected the bread before me to\nhave arsenic in it, or merely to be unwholesome, would it be wonderful\nif I tried to ascertain how the fact stood?\"\n\n\"Did you do so this morning at breakfast?\" asked Freeborn.\n\n\"I did not suspect my bread,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"Then why suspect faith?\" asked Freeborn.\n\n\"Because it is, so to say, a new substance,\"--Freeborn sighed,--\"because\nI am not used to it, nay, because I suspect it. I must say _suspect_ it;\nbecause, though I don't know much about the matter, I know perfectly\nwell, from what has taken place in my father's parish, what excesses\nthis doctrine may lead to, unless it is guarded. You say that it is a\ndoctrine for the poor; now they are very likely to mistake one thing for\nanother; so indeed is every one. If, then, we are told, that we have but\nto apprehend Christ's merits, and need not trouble ourselves about\nanything else; that justification has taken place, and works will\nfollow; that all is done, and that salvation is complete, while we do\nbut continue to have faith; I think we ought to be pretty sure that we\n_have_ faith, real faith, a real apprehension, before we shut up our\nbooks and make holiday.\"\n\nFreeborn was secretly annoyed that he had got into an argument, or\npained, as he would express it, at the pride of Charles's natural man,\nor the blindness of his carnal reason; but there was no help for it, he\nmust give him an answer.\n\n\"There are, I know, many kinds of faith,\" he said; \"and of course you\nmust be on your guard against mistaking false faith for true faith. Many\npersons, as you most truly say, make this mistake; and most important is\nit, all important I should say, to go right. First, it is evident that\nit is not mere belief in facts, in the being of a God, or in the\nhistorical event that Christ has come and gone. Nor is it the submission\nof the reason to mysteries; nor, again, is it that sort of trust which\nis required for exercising the gift of miracles. Nor is it knowledge and\nacceptance of the contents of the Bible. I say, it is not knowledge, it\nis not assent of the intellect, it is not historical faith, it is not\ndead faith: true justifying faith is none of these--it is seated in the\nheart and affections.\" He paused, then added: \"Now, I suppose, for\npractical purposes, I have described pretty well what justifying faith\nis.\"\n\nCharles hesitated: \"By describing what it is _not_, you mean,\" said he;\n\"justifying faith, then, is, I suppose, living faith.\"\n\n\"Not so fast,\" answered Freeborn.\n\n\"Why,\" said Charles, \"if it's not dead faith, it's living faith.\"\n\n\"It's neither dead faith nor living,\" said Freeborn, \"but faith, simple\nfaith, which justifies. Luther was displeased with Melancthon for saying\nthat living and operative faith justified. I have studied the question\nvery carefully.\"\n\n\"Then do _you_ tell me,\" said Charles, \"what faith is, since I do not\nexplain it correctly. For instance, if you said (what you don't say),\nthat faith was submission of the reason to mysteries, or acceptance of\nScripture as an historical document, I should know perfectly well what\nyou meant; _that_ is information: but when you say, that faith which\njustifies is an _apprehension_ of Christ, that it is _not_ living faith,\nor fruitful faith, or operative, but a something which in fact and\nactually is distinct from these, I confess I feel perplexed.\"\n\nFreeborn wished to be out of the argument. \"Oh,\" he said, \"if you really\nonce experienced the power of faith--how it changes the heart,\nenlightens the eyes, gives a new spiritual taste, a new sense to the\nsoul; if you once knew what it was to be blind, and then to see, you\nwould not ask for definitions. Strangers need verbal descriptions; the\nheirs of the kingdom enjoy. Oh, if you could but be persuaded to put off\nhigh imaginations; to strip yourself of your proud self, and to\n_experience_ in yourself the wonderful change, you would live in praise\nand thanksgiving, instead of argument and criticism.\"\n\nCharles was touched by his warmth; \"But,\" he said, \"we ought to act by\nreason; and I don't see that I have more, or so much, reason to listen\nto you, as to listen to the Roman Catholic, who tells me I cannot\npossibly have that certainty of faith before believing, which on\nbelieving will be divinely given me.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Freeborn, with a grave face, \"you would not compare the\nspiritual Christian, such as Luther, holding his cardinal doctrine about\njustification, to any such formal, legal, superstitious devotee as\nPopery can make, with its carnal rites and quack remedies, which never\nreally cleanse the soul or reconcile it to God?\"\n\n\"I don't like you to talk so,\" said Reding; \"I know very little about\nthe real nature of Popery; but when I was a boy I was once, by chance,\nin a Roman Catholic chapel; and I really never saw such devotion in my\nlife--the people all on their knees, and most earnestly attentive to\nwhat was going on. I did not understand what that was; but I am sure,\nhad you been there, you never would have called their religion, be it\nright or wrong, an outward form or carnal ordinance.\"\n\nFreeborn said it deeply pained him to hear such sentiments, and to find\nthat Charles was so tainted with the errors of the day; and he began,\nnot with much tact, to talk of the Papal Antichrist, and would have got\noff to prophecy, had Charles said a word to afford fuel for discussion.\nAs he kept silence, Freeborn's zeal burnt out, and there was a break in\nthe conversation.\n\nAfter a time, Reding ventured to begin again.\n\n\"If I understand you,\" he said, \"faith carries its own evidence with it.\nJust as I eat my bread at breakfast without hesitation about its\nwholesomeness, so, when I have really faith, I know it beyond mistake,\nand need not look out for tests of it?\"\n\n\"Precisely so,\" said Freeborn; \"you begin to see what I mean; you grow.\nThe soul is enlightened to see that it has real faith.\"\n\n\"But how,\" asked Charles, \"are we to rescue those from their dangerous\nmistake, who think they have faith, while they have not? Is there no way\nin which they can find out that they are under a delusion?\"\n\n\"It is not wonderful,\" said Freeborn, \"though there be no way. There are\nmany self-deceivers in the world. Some men are self-righteous, trust in\ntheir works, and think they are safe when they are in a state of\nperdition; no formal rules _can_ be given by which their reason might\nfor certain detect their mistake. And so of false faith.\"\n\n\"Well, it does seem to me wonderful,\" said Charles, \"that there is no\nnatural and obvious warning provided against this delusion; wonderful\nthat false faith should be so exactly like true faith that there is\nnothing to determine their differences from each other. Effects imply\ncauses: if one apprehension of Christ leads to good works, and another\ndoes not, there must be something _in_ the one which is not _in_ the\nother. _What_ is a false apprehension of Christ wanting in, which a true\napprehension has? The word _apprehension_ is so vague; it conveys no\ndefinite idea to me, yet justification depends on it. Is a false\napprehension, for instance, wanting in repentance and amendment?\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Freeborn; \"true faith is complete without conversion;\nconversion follows; but faith is the root.\"\n\n\"Is it the love of God which distinguishes true faith from false?\"\n\n\"Love?\" answered Freeborn; \"you should read what Luther says in his\ncelebrated comment on the Galatians. He calls such a doctrine\n'_pestilens figmentum_,' '_diaboli portentum_;' and cries out against\nthe Papists, '_Pereant sophistae cum sua maledicta glossa!_'\"\n\n\"Then it differs from false faith in nothing.\"\n\n\"Not so,\" said Freeborn; \"it differs from it in its fruits: 'By their\nfruits ye shall know them.'\"\n\n\"This is coming round to the same point again,\" said Charles; \"fruits\ncome after; but a man, it seems, is to take comfort in his justification\n_before_ fruits come, before he knows that his faith will produce them.\"\n\n\"Good works are the _necessary_ fruits of faith,\" said Freeborn; \"so\nsays the Article.\"\n\nCharles made no answer, but said to himself, \"My good friend here\ncertainly has not the clearest of heads;\" then aloud, \"Well, I despair\nof getting at the bottom of the subject.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" answered Freeborn, with an air of superiority, though in a\nmild tone, \"it is a very simple principle, '_Fides justificat ante et\nsine charitate_;' but it requires a Divine light to embrace it.\"\n\nThey walked awhile in silence; then, as the day was now closing in, they\nturned homewards, and parted company when they came to the Clarendon.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nFreeborn was not the person to let go a young man like Charles without\nanother effort to gain him; and in a few days he invited him to take tea\nat his lodgings. Charles went at the appointed time, through the wet and\ncold of a dreary November evening, and found five or six men already\nassembled. He had got into another world; faces, manners, speeches, all\nwere strange, and savoured neither of Eton, which was his own school,\nnor of Oxford itself. He was introduced, and found the awkwardness of a\nnew acquaintance little relieved by the conversation which went on. It\nwas a dropping fire of serious remarks; with pauses, relieved only by\noccasional \"ahems,\" the sipping of tea, the sound of spoons falling\nagainst the saucers, and the blind shifting of chairs as the flurried\nservant-maid of the lodgings suddenly came upon them from behind, with\nthe kettle for the teapot, or toast for the table. There was no nature\nor elasticity in the party, but a great intention to be profitable.\n\n\"Have you seen the last _Spiritual Journal_?\" asked No. 1 of No. 2 in a\nlow voice.\n\nNo. 2 had just read it.\n\n\"A very remarkable article that,\" said No. 1, \"upon the deathbed of the\nPope.\"\n\n\"No one is beyond hope,\" answered No. 2.\n\n\"I have heard of it, but not seen it,\" said No. 3.\n\nA pause.\n\n\"What is it about?\" asked Reding.\n\n\"The late Pope Sixtus the Sixteenth,\" said No. 3; \"he seems to have died\na believer.\"\n\nA sensation. Charles looked as if he wished to know more.\n\n\"The _Journal_ gives it on excellent authority,\" said No. 2; \"Mr.\nO'Niggins, the agent for the Roman Priest Conversion Branch Tract\nSociety, was in Rome during his last illness. He solicited an audience\nwith the Pope, which was granted to him. He at once began to address him\non the necessity of a change of heart, belief in the one Hope of\nsinners, and abandonment of all creature mediators. He announced to him\nthe glad tidings, and assured him there was pardon for all. He warned\nhim against the figment of baptismal regeneration; and then, proceeding\nto apply the word, he urged him, though in the eleventh hour, to receive\nthe Bible, the whole Bible, and nothing but the Bible. The Pope listened\nwith marked attention, and displayed considerable emotion. When it was\nended, he answered Mr. O'Niggins that it was his fervent hope that they\ntwo would not die without finding themselves in one communion, or\nsomething of the sort. He declared moreover, what was astonishing, that\nhe put his sole trust in Christ, 'the source of all merit,' as he\nexpressed it--a remarkable phrase.\"\n\n\"In what language was the conversation carried on?\" asked Reding.\n\n\"It is not stated,\" answered No. 2; \"but I am pretty sure Mr. O'Niggins\nis a good French scholar.\"\n\n\"It does not seem to me,\" said Charles, \"that the Pope's admissions are\ngreater than those made continually by certain members of our own\nChurch, who are nevertheless accused of Popery.\"\n\n\"But they are extorted from such persons,\" said Freeborn, \"while the\nPope's were voluntary.\"\n\n\"The one party go back into darkness,\" said No. 3; \"the Pope was coming\nforward into light.\"\n\n\"One ought to interpret everything for the best in a real Papist,\" said\nFreeborn, \"and everything for the worst in a Puseyite. That is both\ncharity and common sense.\"\n\n\"This was not all,\" continued No. 2; \"he called together the Cardinals,\nprotested that he earnestly desired God's glory, said that inward\nreligion was all in all, and forms were nothing without a contrite\nheart, and that he trusted soon to be in Paradise--which, you know, was\na denial of the doctrine of Purgatory.\"\n\n\"A brand from the burning, I do hope,\" said No. 3.\n\n\"It has frequently been observed,\" said No. 4, \"nay it has struck me\nmyself, that the way to convert Romanists is first to convert the Pope.\"\n\n\"It is a sure way, at least,\" said Charles timidly, afraid he was saying\ntoo much; but his irony was not discovered.\n\n\"Man cannot do it,\" said Freeborn; \"it's the power of faith. Faith can\nbe vouchsafed even to the greatest sinners. You see now, perhaps,\" he\nsaid, turning to Charles, \"better than you did, what I meant by faith\nthe other day. This poor old man could have no merit; he had passed a\nlong life in opposing the Cross. Do your difficulties continue?\"\n\nCharles had thought over their former conversation very carefully\nseveral times, and he answered, \"Why, I don't think they do to the same\nextent.\"\n\nFreeborn looked pleased.\n\n\"I mean,\" he said, \"that the idea hangs together better than I thought\nit did at first.\"\n\nFreeborn looked puzzled.\n\nCharles, slightly colouring, was obliged to proceed, amid the profound\nsilence of the whole party. \"You said, you know, that justifying faith\nwas without love or any other grace besides itself, and that no one\ncould at all tell what it was, except afterwards, from its fruits; that\nthere was no test by which a person could examine himself, whether or\nnot he was deceiving himself when he thought he had faith, so that good\nand bad might equally be taking to themselves the promises and the\nprivileges peculiar to the gospel. I thought this a hard doctrine\ncertainly at first; but, then, afterwards it struck me that faith is\nperhaps a result of a previous state of mind, a blessed result of a\nblessed state, and therefore may be considered the reward of previous\nobedience; whereas sham faith, or what merely looks like faith, is a\njudicial punishment.\"\n\nIn proportion as the drift of the former part of this speech was\nuncertain, so was the conclusion very distinct. There was no mistake,\nand an audible emotion.\n\n\"There is no such thing as previous merit,\" said No. 1; \"all is of\ngrace.\"\n\n\"Not merit, I know,\" said Charles, \"but\"----\n\n\"We must not bring in the doctrine of _de condigno_ or _de congruo_,\"\nsaid No. 2.\n\n\"But surely,\" said Charles, \"it is a cruel thing to say to the unlearned\nand the multitude, 'Believe, and you are at once saved; do not wait for\nfruits, rejoice at once,' and neither to accompany this announcement by\nany clear description of what faith is, nor to secure them by previous\nreligious training against self-deception!\"\n\n\"That is the very gloriousness of the doctrine,\" said Freeborn, \"that it\nis preached to the worst of mankind. It says, 'Come as you are; don't\nattempt to make yourselves better. Believe that salvation is yours, and\nit is yours: good works follow after.'\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" said Charles, continuing his argument, \"when it is\nsaid that justification follows upon baptism, we have an intelligible\nsomething pointed out, which every one can ascertain. Baptism is an\nexternal unequivocal token; whereas that a man has this secret feeling\ncalled faith, no one but himself can be a witness, and he is not an\nunbiassed one.\"\n\nReding had at length succeeded in throwing that dull tea-table into a\nstate of great excitement. \"My dear friend,\" said Freeborn, \"I had hoped\nbetter things; in a little while, I hope, you will see things\ndifferently. Baptism is an outward rite; what is there, can there be,\nspiritual, holy, or heavenly in baptism?\"\n\n\"But you tell me faith too is not spiritual,\" said Charles.\n\n\"_I_ tell you!\" cried Freeborn, \"when?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, somewhat puzzled, \"at least you do not think it\nholy.\"\n\nFreeborn was puzzled in his turn.\n\n\"If it is holy,\" continued Charles, \"it has something good in it; it has\nsome worth; it is not filthy rags. All the good comes afterwards, you\nsaid. You said that its fruits were holy, but that it was nothing at all\nitself.\"\n\nThere was a momentary silence, and some agitation of thought.\n\n\"Oh, faith is certainly a holy feeling,\" said No. 1.\n\n\"No, it is spiritual, but not holy,\" said No. 2; \"it is a mere act, the\napprehension of Christ's merits.\"\n\n\"It is seated in the affections,\" said No. 3; \"faith is a feeling of the\nheart; it is trust, it is a belief that Christ is _my_ Saviour; all this\nis distinct from holiness. Holiness introduces self-righteousness. Faith\nis peace and joy, but it is not holiness. Holiness comes after.\"\n\n\"Nothing can cause holiness but what is holy; this is a sort of axiom,\"\nsaid Charles; \"if the fruits are holy, faith, which is the root, is\nholy.\"\n\n\"You might as well say that the root of a rose is red, and of a lily\nwhite,\" said No. 3.\n\n\"Pardon me, Reding,\" said Freeborn, \"it is, as my friend says, an\n_apprehension_. An apprehension is a seizing; there is no more holiness\nin justifying faith, than in the hand's seizing a substance which comes\nin its way. This is Luther's great doctrine in his 'Commentary' on the\nGalatians. It is nothing in itself--it is a mere instrument; this is\nwhat he teaches, when he so vehemently resists the notion of justifying\nfaith being accompanied by love.\"\n\n\"I cannot assent to that doctrine,\" said No. 1; \"it may be true in a\ncertain sense, but it throws stumbling-blocks in the way of seekers.\nLuther could not have meant what you say, I am convinced. Justifying\nfaith is always accompanied by love.\"\n\n\"That is what I thought,\" said Charles.\n\n\"That is the Romish doctrine all over,\" said No. 2; \"it is the doctrine\nof Bull and Taylor.\"\n\n\"Luther calls it, '_venenum infernale_,'\" said Freeborn.\n\n\"It is just what the Puseyites preach at present,\" said No. 3.\n\n\"On the contrary,\" said No. 1, \"it is the doctrine of Melancthon. Look\nhere,\" he continued, taking his pocketbook out of his pocket, \"I have\ngot his words down as Shuffleton quoted them in the Divinity-school the\nother day: '_Fides significat fiduciam; in fiducida_ inest _dilectio;\nergo etiam dilectione sumus justi_.'\"\n\nThree of the party cried \"Impossible!\" The paper was handed round in\nsolemn silence.\n\n\"Calvin said the same,\" said No. 1 triumphantly.\n\n\"I think,\" said No. 4, in a slow, smooth, sustained voice, which\ncontrasted with the animation which had suddenly inspired the\nconversation, \"that the con-tro-ver-sy, ahem, may be easily arranged. It\nis a question of words between Luther and Melancthon. Luther says, ahem,\n'faith is _without_ love,' meaning, 'faith without love justifies.'\nMelancthon, on the other hand, says, ahem, 'faith is _with_ love,'\nmeaning, 'faith justifies with love.' Now both are true: for, ahem,\nfaith-without-love _justifies_, yet faith justifies _not-without-love_.\"\n\nThere was a pause, while both parties digested this explanation.\n\n\"On the contrary,\" he added, \"it is the Romish doctrine that\nfaith-with-love justifies.\"\n\nFreeborn expressed his dissent; he thought this the doctrine of\nMelancthon which Luther condemned.\n\n\"You mean,\" said Charles, \"that justification is given to faith _with_\nlove, not to faith _and_ love.\"\n\n\"You have expressed my meaning,\" said No. 4.\n\n\"And what is considered the difference between _with_ and _and_?\" asked\nCharles.\n\nNo. 4 replied without hesitation, \"Faith is the _instrument_, love the\n_sine qua non_.\"\n\nNos. 2 and 3 interposed with a protest; they thought it \"legal\" to\nintroduce the phrase _sine qua non_; it was introducing _conditions_.\nJustification was unconditional.\n\n\"But is not faith a condition?\" asked Charles.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Freeborn; \"'condition' is a legal word. How can\nsalvation be free and full, if it is conditional?\"\n\n\"There are no conditions,\" said No. 3; \"all must come from the heart. We\nbelieve with the heart, we love from the heart, we obey with the heart;\nnot because we are obliged, but because we have a new nature.\"\n\n\"Is there no obligation to obey?\" said Charles, surprised.\n\n\"No obligation to the regenerate,\" answered No. 3; \"they are above\nobligation; they are in a new state.\"\n\n\"But surely Christians are under a law,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said No. 2; \"the law is done away in Christ.\"\n\n\"Take care,\" said No. 1; \"that borders on Antinomianism.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Freeborn; \"an Antinomian actually holds that he may\nbreak the law: a spiritual believer only holds that he is not bound to\nkeep it.\"\n\nNow they got into a fresh discussion among themselves; and, as it seemed\nas interminable as it was uninteresting, Reding took an opportunity to\nwish his host a good night, and to slip away. He never had much leaning\ntowards the evangelical doctrine; and Freeborn and his friends, who knew\nwhat they were holding a great deal better than the run of their party,\nsatisfied him that he had not much to gain by inquiring into that\ndoctrine farther. So they will vanish in consequence from our pages.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nWhen Charles got to his room he saw a letter from home lying on his\ntable; and, to his alarm, it had a deep black edge. He tore it open.\nAlas, it announced the sudden death of his dear father! He had been\nailing some weeks with the gout, which at length had attacked his\nstomach, and carried him off in a few hours.\n\nO my poor dear Charles, I sympathize with you keenly all that long\nnight, and in that indescribable waking in the morning, and that dreary\nday of travel which followed it! By the afternoon you were at home. O\npiercing change! it was but six or seven weeks before that you had\npassed the same objects the reverse way, with what different feelings,\nand oh, in what company, as you made for the railway omnibus! It was a\ngrief not to be put into words; and to meet mother, sisters--and the\nDead!...\n\nThe funeral is over by some days; Charles is to remain at home the\nremainder of the term, and does not return to Oxford till towards the\nend of January. The signs of grief have been put away; the house looks\ncheerful as before; the fire as bright, the mirrors as clear, the\nfurniture as orderly; the pictures are the same, and the ornaments on\nthe mantelpiece stand as they have stood, and the French clock tells the\nhour, as it has told it, for years past. The inmates of the parsonage\nwear, it is most true, the signs of a heavy bereavement; but they\nconverse as usual, and on ordinary subjects; they pursue the same\nemployments, they work, they read, they walk in the garden, they dine.\nThere is no change except in the inward consciousness of an overwhelming\nloss. _He_ is not there, not merely on this day or that, for so it well\nmight be; he is not merely away, but, as they know well, he is gone and\nwill not return. That he is absent now is but a token and a memorial to\ntheir minds that he will be absent always. But especially at dinner;\nCharles had to take a place which he had sometimes filled, but then as\nthe deputy, and in the presence of him whom now he succeeded. His\nfather, being not much more than a middle-aged man, had been accustomed\nto carve himself. And when at the meal of the day Charles looked up, he\nhad to encounter the troubled look of one, who, from her place at table,\nhad before her eyes a still more vivid memento of their common\nloss;--_aliquid desideraverunt oculi_.\n\nMr. Reding had left his family well provided for; and this, though a\nreal alleviation of their loss in the event, perhaps augmented the pain\nof it at the moment. He had ever been a kind indulgent father. He was a\nmost respectable clergyman of the old school; pious in his sentiments, a\ngentleman in his feelings, exemplary in his social relations. He was no\nreader, and never had been in the way to gain theological knowledge; he\nsincerely believed all that was in the Prayer Book, but his sermons were\nvery rarely doctrinal. They were sensible, manly discourses on the moral\nduties. He administered Holy Communion at the three great festivals, saw\nhis Bishop once or twice a year, was on good terms with the country\ngentlemen in his neighbourhood, was charitable to the poor, hospitable\nin his housekeeping, and was a staunch though not a violent supporter of\nthe Tory interest in his county. He was incapable of anything harsh, or\npetty, or low, or uncourteous; and died esteemed by the great houses\nabout him, and lamented by his parishioners.\n\nIt was the first great grief poor Charles had ever had, and he felt it\nto be real. How did the small anxieties which had of late teased him,\nvanish before this tangible calamity! He then understood the difference\nbetween what was real and what was not. All the doubts, inquiries,\nsurmises, views, which had of late haunted him on theological subjects,\nseemed like so many shams, which flitted before him in sun-bright hours,\nbut had no root in his inward nature, and fell from him, like the\nhelpless December leaves, in the hour of his affliction. He felt now\n_where_ his heart and his life lay. His birth, his parentage, his\neducation, his home, were great realities; to these his being was\nunited; out of these he grew. He felt he must be what Providence had\nmade him. What is called the pursuit of truth, seemed an idle dream. He\nhad great tangible duties to his father's memory, to his mother and\nsisters, to his position; he felt sick of all theories, as if they had\ntaken him in; and he secretly resolved never more to have anything to do\nwith them. Let the world go on as it might, happen what would to others,\nhis own place and his own path were clear. He would go back to Oxford,\nattend steadily to his books, put aside all distractions, avoid\nbye-paths, and do his best to acquit himself well in the schools. The\nChurch of England as it was, its Articles, bishops, preachers,\nprofessors, had sufficed for much better persons than he was; they were\ngood enough for him. He could not do better than imitate the life and\ndeath of his beloved father; quiet years in the country at a distance\nfrom all excitements, a round of pious, useful works among the poor, the\ncare of a village school, and at length the death of the righteous.\n\nAt the moment, and for some time to come, he had special duties towards\nhis mother; he wished, as far as might be, to supply to her the place of\nhim she had lost. She had great trials before her still; if it was a\ngrief to himself to leave Hartley, what would it be to her? Not many\nmonths would pass before she would have to quit a place ever dear, and\nnow sacred in her thoughts; there was in store for her the anguish of\ndismantling the home of many years, and the toil and whirl of packing; a\nwearied head and an aching heart at a time when she would have most need\nof self-possession and energy.\n\nSuch were the thoughts which came upon him again and again in those\nsorrowful weeks. A leaf had been turned over in his life; he could not\nbe what he had been. People come to man's estate at very different\nages. Youngest sons in a family, like monks in a convent, may remain\nchildren till they have reached middle age; but the elder, should their\nfather die prematurely, are suddenly ripened into manhood, when they are\nalmost boys. Charles had left Oxford a clever unformed youth; he\nreturned a man.\n\n\n\n\nPart II.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nAbout three miles from Oxford a thickly-wooded village lies on the side\nof a steep, long hill or chine, looking over the Berkshire woods, and\ncommanding a view of the many-turreted city itself. Over its broad\nsummit once stretched a chestnut forest; and now it is covered with the\nroots of trees, or furze, or soft turf. The red sand which lies\nunderneath contrasts with the green, and adds to its brilliancy; it\ndrinks in, too, the rain greedily, so that the wide common is nearly\nalways fit for walking; and the air, unlike the heavy atmosphere of the\nUniversity beneath it, is fresh and bracing. The gorse was still in\nbloom, in the latter end of the month of June, when Reding and Sheffield\ntook up their abode in a small cottage at the upper end of this\nvillage--so hid with trees and girt in with meadows that for the\nstranger it was hard to find--there to pass their third and last Long\nVacation before going into the schools.\n\nA year and a half had passed since Charles's great affliction, and the\ntime had not been unprofitably spent either by himself or his friend.\nBoth had read very regularly, and Sheffield had gained the Latin verse\ninto the bargain. Charles had put all religious perplexities aside; that\nis, he knew of course many more persons of all parties than he did\nbefore, and became better acquainted with their tenets and their\ncharacters, but he did not dwell upon anything which he met with, nor\nattempt to determine the merits or solve the difficulties of this or\nthat question. He took things as they came; and, while he gave his mind\nto his books, he thankfully availed himself of the religious privileges\nwhich the College system afforded him. Nearly a year still remained\nbefore his examination; and, as Mrs. Reding had not as yet fully\narranged her plans, but was still, with her daughters, passing from\nfriend to friend, he had listened to Sheffield's proposal to take a\ntutor for the Vacation, and to find a site for their studies in the\nneighbourhood of Oxford. There was every prospect of their both\nobtaining the highest honours which the schools award: they both were\ngood scholars, and clever men; they had read regularly, and had had the\nadvantage of able lectures.\n\nThe side of the hill forms a large, sweeping hollow or theatre just on\none side of the village of Horsley. The two extreme points may be half a\nmile across; but the distance is increased to one who follows the path\nwhich winds through the furze and fern along the ridge. Their tutor had\nbeen unable to find lodgings in the village; and, while the two young\nmen lived on one extremity of the sweep we have been describing, Mr.\nCarlton, who was not above three years older than they, had planted\nhimself at a farmhouse upon the other. Besides, the farmhouse suited\nhim better, as being nearer to a hamlet which he was serving during the\nVacation.\n\n\"I don't think you like Carlton as well as I do,\" said Reding to\nSheffield, as they lay on the green sward with some lighter classic in\ntheir hands, waiting for dinner, and watching their friend as he\napproached them from his lodgings. \"He is to me so taking a man; so\nequable, so gentle, so considerate--he brings people together, and fills\nthem with confidence in himself and friendly feeling towards each other,\nmore than any person I know.\"\n\n\"You are wrong,\" said Sheffield, \"if you think I don't value him\nextremely, and love him too; it's impossible not to love him. But he's\nnot the person quite to get influence over me.\"\n\n\"He's too much of an Anglican for you,\" said Reding.\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Sheffield, \"except indirectly. My quarrel with him\nis, that he has many original thoughts, and holds many profound truths\nin detail, but is quite unable to see how they lie to each other, and\nequally unable to draw consequences. He never sees a truth until he\ntouches it; he is ever groping and feeling, and, as in hide-and-seek,\ncontinually burns without discovering. I know there are ten thousand\npersons who cannot see an inch before their nose, and who can\ncomfortably digest contradictions; but Carlton is really a clever man;\nhe is no common thinker; this makes it so provoking. When I write an\nessay for him--I know I write obscurely, and often do not bring out the\nsequence of my ideas in due order, but, so it is--he is sure to cut out\nthe very thought or statement on which I especially pride myself, on\nwhich the whole argument rests, which binds every part together; and he\ncoolly tells me that it is extravagant or far-fetched--not seeing that\nby leaving it out he has made nonsense of the rest. He is a man to rob\nan arch of its keystone, and then quietly to build his house upon it.\"\n\n\"Ah, your old failing again,\" said Reding; \"a craving after views. Now,\nwhat I like in Carlton, is that repose of his;--always saying enough,\nnever too much; never boring you, never taxing you; always practical,\nnever in the clouds. Save me from a viewy man; I could not live with him\nfor a week, present company always excepted.\"\n\n\"Now, considering how hard I have read, and how little I have talked\nthis year past, that is hard on me,\" said Sheffield. \"Did not I go to be\none of old Thruston's sixteen pupils, last Long? He gave us capital\nfeeds, smoked with us, and coached us in Ethics and Agamemnon. He knows\nhis books by heart, can repeat his plays backwards, and weighs out his\nAristotle by grains and pennyweights; but, for generalizations, ideas,\npoetry, oh, it was desolation--it was a darkness which could be felt!\"\n\n\"And you stayed there just six weeks out of four months, Sheffield,\"\nanswered Reding.\n\nCarlton had now joined them, and, after introductory greetings on both\nsides, he too threw himself upon the turf. Sheffield said: \"Reding and I\nwere disputing just now whether Nicias was a party man.\"\n\n\"Of course you first defined your terms,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"Well,\" said Sheffield, \"I mean by a party man, one who not only belongs\nto a party, but who has the _animus_ of party. Nicias did not make a\nparty, he found one made. He found himself at the head of it; he was no\nmore a party man than a prince who was born the head of his state.\"\n\n\"I should agree with you,\" said Carlton; \"but still I should like to\nknow what a party is, and what a party man.\"\n\n\"A party,\" said Sheffield, \"is merely an extra-constitutional or\nextra-legal body.\"\n\n\"Party action,\" said Charles, \"is the exertion of influence instead of\nlaw.\"\n\n\"But supposing, Reding, there is no law existing in the quarter where\ninfluence exerts itself?\" asked Carlton.\n\nCharles had to explain: \"Certainly,\" he said, \"the State did not\nlegislate for all possible contingencies.\"\n\n\"For instance,\" continued Carlton, \"a prime minister, I have understood,\nis not acknowledged in the Constitution; he exerts influence beyond the\nlaw, but not, in consequence, against any existing law; and it would be\nabsurd to talk of him as a party man.\"\n\n\"Parliamentary parties, too, are recognised among us,\" said Sheffield,\n\"though extra-constitutional. We call them parties; but who would call\nthe Duke of Devonshire or Lord John Russell, in a bad sense, a party\nman?\"\n\n\"It seems to me,\" said Carlton, \"that the formation of a party is\nmerely a recurrence to the original mode of forming into society. You\nrecollect Deioces; he formed a party. He gained influence; he laid the\nfoundation of social order.\"\n\n\"Law certainly begins in influence,\" said Reding, \"for it presupposes a\nlawgiver; afterwards it supersedes influence; from that time the\nexertion of influence is a sign of party.\"\n\n\"Too broadly said, as you yourself just now allowed,\" said Carlton: \"you\nshould say that law _begins_ to supersede influence, and that _in\nproportion_ as it supersedes it, does the exertion of influence involve\nparty action. For instance, has not the Crown an immense personal\ninfluence? we talk of the Court _party_; yet it does not interfere with\nlaw, it is intended to conciliate the people to the law.\"\n\n\"But it is recognized by law and constitution,\" said Charles, \"as was\nthe Dictatorship.\"\n\n\"Well, then, take the influence of the clergy,\" answered Carlton; \"we\nmake much of that influence as a principle supplemental to the law, and\nas a support to the law, yet not created or defined by the law. The law\ndoes not recognize what some one calls truly a 'resident gentleman' in\nevery parish. Influence, then, instead of law is not necessarily the\naction of party.\"\n\n\"So again, national character is an influence distinct from the law,\"\nsaid Sheffield, \"according to the line, '_Quid leges sine moribus_?'\"\n\n\"Law,\" said Carlton, \"is but gradually formed and extended. Well, then,\nso far as there is no law, there is the reign of influence; there is\nparty without of necessity _party_ action. This is the justification of\nWhigs and Tories at the present day; to supply, as Aristotle says on\nanother subject, the defects of the law. Charles I. exerted a regal,\nWalpole a ministerial influence; but influence, not law, was the\noperating principle in both cases. The object or the means might be\nwrong, but the process could not be called party action.\"\n\n\"You would justify, then,\" said Charles, \"the associations or\nconfraternities which existed, for instance, in Athens; not, that is, if\nthey 'took the law into their own hands,' as the phrase goes, but if\nthere was no law to take, or if there was no constituted authority to\ntake it of right. It was a recurrence to the precedent of Deioces.\"\n\n\"Manzoni gives a striking instance of this in the beginning of his\n_Promessi Sposi_,\" said Sheffield, \"when he describes that protection,\nwhich law ought to give to the weak, as being in the sixteenth century\nsought and found almost exclusively in factions or companies. I don't\nrecollect particulars, but he describes the clergy as busy in extending\ntheir immunities, the nobility their privileges, the army their\nexemptions, the trades and artisans their guilds. Even the lawyers\nformed a union, and medical men a corporation.\"\n\n\"Thus constitutions are gradually moulded and perfected,\" said Carlton,\n\"by extra-constitutional bodies, either coming under the protection of\nlaw, or else being superseded by the law's providing for their objects.\nIn the middle ages the Church was a vast extra-constitutional body. The\nGerman and Anglo-Norman sovereigns sought to bring its operation\n_under_ the law; modern parliaments have superseded its operation _by\nlaw_. Then the State wished to gain the right of investitures; now the\nState marries, registers, manages the poor, exercises ecclesiastical\njurisdiction instead of the Church.\"\n\n\"This will make ostracism parallel to the Reformation or the\nRevolution,\" said Sheffield; \"there is a battle of influence against\ninfluence, and one gets rid of the other; law or constitution does not\ncome into question, but the will of the people or of the court ejects,\nwhether the too-gifted individual, or the monarch, or the religion. What\nwas not under the law could not be dealt with, had no claim to be dealt\nwith, by the law.\"\n\n\"A thought has sometimes struck me,\" said Reding, \"which falls in with\nwhat you have been saying. In the last half-century there has been a\ngradual formation of the popular party in the State, which now tends to\nbe acknowledged as constitutional, or is already so acknowledged. My\nfather never could endure newspapers--I mean the system of newspapers;\nhe said it was a new power in the State. I am sure I am not defending\nwhat he was thinking of, the many bad proceedings, the wretched\nprinciples, the arrogance and tyranny of newspaper writers, but I am\ntrying the subject by the test of your theory. The great body of the\npeople are very imperfectly represented in parliament; the Commons are\nnot their voice, but the voice of certain great interests. Consequently\nthe press comes in--to do that which the constitution does not do--to\nform the people into a vast mutual-protection association. And this is\ndone by the same right that Deioces had to collect people about him; it\ndoes not interfere with the existing territory of the law, but builds\nwhere the constitution has not made provision. It _tends_, then,\nultimately to be recognised by the constitution.\"\n\n\"There is another remarkable phenomenon of a similar kind now in process\nof development,\" said Carlton, \"and that is, the influence of agitation.\nI really am not politician enough to talk of it as good or bad; one's\nnatural instinct is against it; but it may be necessary. However,\nagitation is getting to be recognised as the legitimate instrument by\nwhich the masses make their desires known, and secure the accomplishment\nof them. Just as a bill passes in parliament, after certain readings,\ndiscussions, speeches, votings, and the like, so the process by which an\nact of the popular will becomes law is a long agitation, issuing in\npetitions, previous to and concurrent with the parliamentary process.\nThe first instance of this was about fifty or sixty years ago, when ...\nHallo!\" he cried, \"who is this cantering up to us?\"\n\n\"I declare it is old Vincent,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"He is to come to dine,\" said Charles, \"just in time.\"\n\n\"How are you, Carlton?\" cried Vincent. \"How d'ye do, Mr. Sheffield? Mr.\nReding, how d'ye do? acting up to your name, I suppose, for you were\never a reading man. For myself,\" he continued, \"I am just now an eating\nman, and am come to dine with you, if you will let me. Have you a place\nfor my horse?\"\n\nThere was a farmer near who could lend a stable; so the horse was led\noff by Charles; and the rider, without any delay--for the hour did not\nadmit it--entered the cottage to make his brief preparation for dinner.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nIn a few minutes all met together at table in the small parlour, which\nwas room of all work in the cottage. They had not the whole house,\nlimited as were its resources; for it was also the habitation of a\ngardener, who took his vegetables to the Oxford market, and whose wife\n(what is called) _did_ for his lodgers.\n\nDinner was suited to the apartment, apartment to the dinner. The\nbook-table had been hastily cleared for a cloth, not over white, and, in\nconsequence, the sole remaining table, which acted as sideboard,\ndisplayed a relay of plates and knives and forks, in the midst of\noctavos and duodecimos, bound and unbound, piled up and thrown about in\ngreat variety of shapes. The other ornaments of this side-table were an\nink-glass, some quires of large paper, a straw hat, a gold watch, a\nclothes-brush, some bottles of ginger-beer, a pair of gloves, a case of\ncigars, a neck-handkerchief, a shoe-horn, a small slate, a large\nclasp-knife, a hammer, and a handsome inlaid writing-desk.\n\n\"I like these rides into the country,\" said Vincent, as they began\neating, \"the country loses its effect on me when I live in it, as you\ndo; but it is exquisite as a zest. Visit it, do not live in it, if you\nwould enjoy it. Country air is a stimulus; stimulants, Mr. Reding,\nshould not be taken too often. You are of the country party. I am of no\nparty. I go here and there--like the bee--I taste of everything, I\ndepend on nothing.\"\n\nSheffield said that this was rather belonging to all parties than to\nnone.\n\n\"That is impossible,\" answered Vincent; \"I hold it to be altogether\nimpossible. You can't belong to two parties; there's no fear of it; you\nmight as well attempt to be in two places at once. To be connected with\nboth is to be united with neither. Depend on it, my young friend,\nantagonist principles correct each other. It's a piece of philosophy\nwhich one day you will thank me for, when you are older.\"\n\n\"I have heard of an American illustration of this,\" said Sheffield,\n\"which certainly confirms what you say, sir. Professors in the United\nStates are sometimes of two or three religions at once, according as we\nregard them historically, personally, or officially. In this way,\nperhaps, they hit the mean.\"\n\nVincent, though he so often excited a smile in others, had no humour\nhimself, and never could make out the difference between irony and\nearnest. Accordingly he was brought to a stand.\n\nCharles came to his relief. \"Before dinner,\" he said, \"we were sporting\nwhat you will consider a great paradox, I am afraid; that parties were\ngood things, or rather necessary things.\"\n\n\"You don't do me justice,\" answered Vincent, \"if this is what you think\nI deny. I halve your words; parties are not good, but necessary; like\nsnails, I neither envy them their small houses, nor try to lodge in them\nmyself.\"\n\n\"You mean,\" said Carlton, \"that parties do our dirty work; they are our\nbeasts of burden; we could not get on without them, but we need not\nidentify ourselves with them; we may keep aloof.\"\n\n\"That,\" said Sheffield, \"is something like those religious professors\nwho say that it is sinful to engage in worldly though necessary\noccupations; but that the reprobate undertake them, and work for the\nelect.\"\n\n\"There will always be persons enough in the world who like to be party\nmen, without being told to be so,\" said Vincent; \"it's our business to\nturn them to account, to use them, but to keep aloof. I take it, all\nparties are partly right, only they go too far. I borrow from each, I\nco-operate with each, as far as each is right, and no further. Thus I\nget good from all, and I do good to all; for I countenance each, so far\nas it is true.\"\n\n\"Mr. Carlton meant more than that, sir,\" said Sheffield; \"he meant that\nthe existence of parties was not only necessary and useful, but even\nright.\"\n\n\"Mr. Carlton is not the man to make paradoxes,\" said Vincent; \"I suspect\nhe would not defend the extreme opinions, which, alas, exist among us at\npresent, and are progressing every day.\"\n\n\"I was speaking of political parties,\" said Carlton, \"but I am disposed\nto extend what I said to religious also.\"\n\n\"But, my good Carlton,\" said Vincent, \"Scripture speaks against\nreligious parties.\"\n\n\"Certainly I don't wish to oppose Scripture,\" said Carlton, \"and I speak\nunder correction of Scripture; but I say this, that whenever and\nwherever a church does not decide religious points, so far does it leave\nthe decision to individuals; and, since you can't expect all people to\nagree together, you must have different opinions; and the expression of\nthose different opinions, by the various persons who hold them, is what\nis called a party.\"\n\n\"Mr. Carlton has been great, sir, on the general subject before dinner,\"\nsaid Sheffield, \"and now he draws the corollary, that whenever there are\nparties in a church, a church may thank itself for them. They are the\ncertain effect of private judgment; and the more private judgment you\nhave, the more parties you will have. You are reduced, then, to this\nalternative, no toleration or else party; and you must recognise party,\nunless you refuse toleration.\"\n\n\"Sheffield words it more strongly than I should do,\" said Carlton; \"but\nreally I mean pretty much what he says. Take the case of the Roman\nCatholics; they have decided many points of theology, many they have not\ndecided; and wherever there is no ecclesiastical decision, there they\nhave at once a party, or what they call a 'school;' and when the\necclesiastical decision at length appears, then the party ceases. Thus\nyou have the Dominicans and Franciscans contending about the Immaculate\nConception; they went on contending because authority did not at once\ndecide the question. On the other hand, when Jesuits and Jansenists\ndisputed on the question of grace, the Pope gave it in favour of the\nJesuits, and the controversy at once came to an end.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Vincent, \"my good and worthy friend, the Rev. Charles\nCarlton, Fellow of Leicester, and sometime Ireland Essayist, is not\npreferring the Church of Rome to the Church of England?\"\n\nCarlton laughed; \"You won't suspect me of that, I think,\" he answered;\n\"no; all I say is, that our Church, from its constitution, admits,\napproves of private judgment; and that private judgment, so far forth as\nit is admitted, necessarily involves parties; the slender private\njudgment allowed in the Church of Rome admitting occasional or local\nparties, and the ample private judgment allowed in our Church\nrecognizing parties as an element of the Church.\"\n\n\"Well, well, my good Carlton,\" said Vincent, frowning and looking wise,\nyet without finding anything particular to say.\n\n\"You mean,\" said Sheffield, \"if I understand you, that it is a piece of\nmawkish hypocrisy to shake the head and throw up the eyes at Mr. this or\nthat for being the head of a religious party, while we return thanks for\nour pure and reformed Church; because purity, reformation, apostolicity,\ntoleration, all these boasts and glories of the Church of England,\nestablish party action and party spirit as a cognate blessing, for which\nwe should be thankful also. Party is one of our greatest ornaments, Mr.\nVincent.\"\n\n\"A sentiment or argument does not lose in your hands,\" said Carlton;\n\"but what I meant was simply that party leaders are not dishonourable in\nthe Church, unless Lord John Russell or Sir Robert Peel hold a\ndishonourable post in the State.\"\n\n\"My young friend,\" said Vincent, finishing his mutton, and pushing his\nplate from him, \"my two young friends--for Carlton is not much older\nthan Mr. Sheffield--may you learn a little more judgment. When you have\nlived to my age\" (viz. two or three years beyond Carlton's) \"you will\nlearn sobriety in all things. Mr. Reding, another glass of wine. See\nthat poor child, how she totters under the gooseberry-pudding; up, Mr.\nSheffield, and help her. The old woman cooks better than I had expected.\nHow do you get your butcher's meat here, Carlton? I should have made the\nattempt to bring you a fine jack I saw in our kitchen, but I thought you\nwould have no means of cooking it.\"\n\nDinner over, the party rose, and strolled out on the green. Another\nsubject commenced.\n\n\"Was not Mr. Willis of St. George's a friend of yours, Mr. Reding?\"\nasked Vincent.\n\nCharles started; \"I knew him a little ... I have seen him several\ntimes.\"\n\n\"You know he left us,\" continued Vincent, \"and joined the Church of\nRome. Well, it is credibly reported that he is returning.\"\n\n\"A melancholy history, anyhow,\" answered Charles; \"most melancholy, if\nthis is true.\"\n\n\"Rather,\" said Vincent, setting him right, as if he had simply made a\nverbal mistake, \"a most happy termination, you mean; the only thing that\nwas left for him to do. You know he went abroad. Any one who is\ninclined to Romanize should go abroad; Carlton, we shall be sending you\nsoon. Here things are softened down; there you see the Church of Rome as\nit really is. I have been abroad, and should know it. Such heaps of\nbeggars in the streets of Rome and Naples; so much squalidness and\nmisery; no cleanliness; an utter want of comfort; and such superstition;\nand such an absence of all true and evangelical seriousness. They push\nand fight while Mass is going on; they jabber their prayers at railroad\nspeed; they worship the Virgin as a goddess; and they see miracles at\nthe corner of every street. Their images are awful, and their ignorance\nprodigious. Well, Willis saw all this; and I have it on good authority,\"\nhe said mysteriously, \"that he is thoroughly disgusted with the whole\naffair, and is coming back to us.\"\n\n\"Is he in England now?\" asked Reding.\n\n\"He is said to be with his mother in Devonshire, who, perhaps you know,\nis a widow; and he has been too much for her. Poor silly fellow, who\nwould not take the advice of older heads! A friend once sent him to me;\nI could make nothing of him. I couldn't understand his arguments, nor he\nmine. It was no good; he would make trial himself, and he has caught\nit.\"\n\nThere was a short pause in the conversation; then Vincent added, \"But\nsuch perversions, Carlton, I suppose, thinks to be as necessary as\nparties in a pure Protestant Church.\"\n\n\"I can't say you satisfy me, Carlton,\" said Charles; \"and I am happy to\nhave the sanction of Mr. Vincent. Did political party make men rebels,\nthen would political party be indefensible; so is religious, if it\nleads to apostasy.\"\n\n\"You know the Whigs _were_ accused in the last war,\" said Sheffield, \"of\nsiding with Bonaparte; accidents of this kind don't affect general rules\nor standing customs.\"\n\n\"Well, independent of this,\" answered Charles, \"I cannot think religious\nparties defensible on the considerations which justify political. There\nis, to my feelings, something despicable in heading a religious party.\"\n\n\"Was Loyola despicable,\" asked Sheffield, \"or St. Dominic?\"\n\n\"They had the sanction of their superiors,\" said Charles.\n\n\"You are hard on parties surely, Reding,\" said Carlton; \"a man may\nindividually write, preach, and publish what he believes to be the\ntruth, without offence; why, then, does it begin to be wrong when he\ndoes so together with others?\"\n\n\"Party tactics are a degradation of the truth,\" said Charles.\n\n\"We have heard, I believe, before now,\" said Carlton, \"of Athanasius\nagainst the whole world, and the whole world against Athanasius.\"\n\n\"Well,\" answered Charles, \"I will but say this, that a party man must be\nvery much above par or below it.\"\n\n\"There, again, I don't agree,\" said Carlton; \"you are supposing the\nleader of a party to be conscious of what he is doing; and, being\nconscious, he may be, as you say, either much above or below the\naverage; but a man need not realise to himself that he is forming a\nparty.\"\n\n\"That's more difficult to conceive,\" said Vincent, \"than any statement\nwhich has been hazarded this afternoon.\"\n\n\"Not at all difficult,\" answered Carlton: \"do you mean that there is\nonly one way of gaining influence? surely there is such a thing as\nunconscious influence?\"\n\n\"I'd as easily believe,\" said Vincent, \"that a beauty does not know her\ncharms.\"\n\n\"That's narrow-minded,\" retorted Carlton: \"a man sits in his room and\nwrites, and does not know what people think of him.\"\n\n\"I'd believe it less,\" persisted Vincent: \"beauty is a fact; influence\nis an effect. Effects imply agents, agency, will and consciousness.\"\n\n\"There are different modes of influence,\" interposed Sheffield;\n\"influence is often spontaneous and almost necessary.\"\n\n\"Like the light on Moses' face,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"Bonaparte is said to have had an irresistible smile,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"What is beauty itself, but a spontaneous influence?\" added Carlton;\n\"don't you recollect 'the lovely young Lavinia' in Thomson?\"\n\n\"Well, gentlemen,\" said Vincent, \"when I am Chancellor I will give a\nprize essay on 'Moral Influence, its Kinds and Causes,' and Mr.\nSheffield shall get it; and as to Carlton, he shall be my Poetry\nProfessor when I am Convocation.\"\n\nYou will say, good reader, that the party took a very short stroll on\nthe hill, when we tell you that they were now stooping their heads at\nthe lowly door of the cottage; but the terse _littera scripta_ abridges\nwondrously the rambling _vox emissa_; and there might be other things\nsaid in the course of the conversation which history has not\ncondescended to record. Anyhow, we are obliged now to usher them again\ninto the room where they had dined, and where they found tea ready laid,\nand the kettle speedily forthcoming. The bread and butter were\nexcellent; and the party did justice to them, as if they had not lately\ndined. \"I see you keep your tea in tin cases,\" said Vincent; \"I am for\nglass. Don't spare the tea, Mr. Reding; Oxford men do not commonly fail\non that head. Lord Bacon says the first and best juice of the grape,\nlike the primary, purest, and best comment on Scripture, is not pressed\nand forced out, but consists of a natural exudation. This is the case in\nItaly at this day; and they call the juice '_lagrima_.' So it is with\ntea, and with coffee too. Put in a large quantity, pour on the water,\nturn off the liquor; turn it off at once--don't let it stand; it becomes\npoisonous. I am a great patron of tea; the poet truly says, 'It cheers,\nbut not inebriates.' It has sometimes a singular effect upon my nerves;\nit makes me whistle--so people tell me; I am not conscious of it.\nSometimes, too, it has a dyspeptic effect. I find it does not do to take\nit too hot; we English drink our liquors too hot. It is not a French\nfailing; no, indeed. In France, that is, in the country, you get nothing\nfor breakfast but acid wine and grapes; this is the other extreme, and\nhas before now affected me awfully. Yet acids, too, have a soothing\nsedative effect upon one; lemonade especially. But nothing suits me so\nwell as tea. Carlton,\" he continued mysteriously, \"do you know the late\nDr. Baillie's preventive of the flatulency which tea produces? Mr.\nSheffield, do you?\" Both gave up. \"Camomile flowers; a little camomile,\nnot a great deal; some people chew rhubarb, but a little camomile in the\ntea is not perceptible. Don't make faces, Mr. Sheffield; a little, I\nsay; a little of everything is best--_ne quid nimis_. Avoid all\nextremes. So it is with sugar. Mr. Reding, you are putting too much into\nyour tea. I lay down this rule: sugar should not be a substantive\ningredient in tea, but an adjective; that is, tea has a natural\nroughness; sugar is only intended to remove that roughness; it has a\nnegative office; when it is more than this, it is too much. Well,\nCarlton, it is time for me to be seeing after my horse. I fear he has\nnot had so pleasant an afternoon as I. I have enjoyed myself much in\nyour suburban villa. What a beautiful moon! but I have some very rough\nground to pass over. I daren't canter over the ruts with the gravel-pits\nclose before me. Mr. Sheffield, do me the favour to show me the way to\nthe stable. Good-bye to you, Carlton; good night, Mr. Reding.\"\n\nWhen they were left to themselves Charles asked Carlton if he really\nmeant to acquit of party spirit the present party leaders in Oxford.\n\"You must not misunderstand me,\" answered he; \"I do not know much of\nthem, but I know they are persons of great merit and high character, and\nI wish to think the best of them. They are most unfairly attacked, that\nis certain; however, they are accused of wishing to make a display, of\naiming at influence and power, of loving agitation, and so on. I cannot\ndeny that some things they have done have an unpleasant appearance, and\ngive plausibility to the charge. I wish they had, at certain times,\nacted otherwise. Meanwhile, I do think it but fair to keep in view that\nthe existence of parties is no fault of theirs. They are but claiming\ntheir birthright as Protestants. When the Church does not speak, others\nwill speak instead; and learned men have the best right to speak. Again,\nwhen learned men speak, others will attend to them; and thus the\nformation of a party is rather the act of those who follow than of those\nwho lead.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nSheffield had some friends residing at Chalton, a neighbouring village,\nwith a scholar of St. Michael's, who had a small cure with a house on\nit. One of them, indeed, was known to Reding also, being no other than\nour friend White, who was going into the schools, and during the last\nsix months had been trying to make up for the time he had wasted in the\nfirst years of his residence. Charles had lost sight of him, or nearly\nso, since he first knew him; and at their time of life so considerable\nan interval could not elapse without changes in the character for good\nor evil, or for both. Carlton and Charles, who were a good deal thrown\ntogether by Sheffield's frequent engagements with the Chalton party,\nwere just turning homewards in their walk one evening when they fell in\nwith White, who had been calling at Mr. Bolton's in Oxford, and was\nreturning. They had not proceeded very far before they were joined by\nSheffield and Mr. Barry, the curate of Chalton; and thus the party was\nswelled to five.\n\n\"So you are going to lose Upton?\" said Barry to Reding; \"a capital\ntutor; you can ill spare him. Who comes into his place?\"\n\n\"We don't know,\" answered Charles; \"the Principal will call up one of\nthe Junior Fellows from the country, I believe.\"\n\n\"Oh, but you won't get a man like Upton,\" said Carlton; \"he knew his\nsubject so thoroughly. His lecture in the Agricola, I've heard your men\nsay, might have been published. It was a masterly, minute running\ncomment on the text, quite exhausting it.\"\n\n\"Yes, it was his forte,\" said Charles; \"yet he never loaded his\nlectures; everything he said had a meaning, and was wanted.\"\n\n\"He has got a capital living,\" said Barry; \"a substantial modern house,\nand by the rail only an hour from London.\"\n\n\"And _500l._ a year,\" said White; \"Mr. Bolton went over the living, and\ntold me so. It's in my future neighbourhood; a very beautiful country,\nand a number of good families round about.\"\n\n\"They say he's going to marry the Dean of Selsey's daughter,\" said\nBarry; \"do you know the family? Miss Juliet, the thirteenth, a very\npretty girl.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said White, \"I know them all; a most delightful family; Mrs.\nBland is a charming woman, so very ladylike. It's my good luck to be\nunder the Dean's jurisdiction; I think I shall pull with him capitally.\"\n\n\"He's a clever man,\" said Barry; \"his charges are always well written;\nhe had a high name in his day at Cambridge.\"\n\n\"Hasn't he been lately writing against your friends here, White?\" said\nSheffield.\n\n\"_My_ friends!\" said White; \"whom can you mean? He has written against\nparties and party leaders; and with reason, I think. Oh, yes; he alluded\nto poor Willis and some others.\"\n\n\"It was more that that,\" insisted Sheffield; \"he charged against certain\nsayings and doings at St. Mary's.\"\n\n\"Well, I for one cannot approve of all that is uttered from the pulpit\nthere,\" said White; \"I know for a fact that Willis refers with great\nsatisfaction to what he heard there as inclining him to Romanism.\"\n\n\"I wish preachers and hearers would all go over together at once, and\nthen we should have some quiet time for proper University studies,\" said\nBarry.\n\n\"Take care what you are saying, Barry,\" said Sheffield; \"you mean\npresent company excepted. You, White, I think, come under the\ndenomination of hearers?\"\n\n\"I!\" said White; \"no such thing. I have been to hear him before now, as\nmost men have; but I think him often very injudicious, or worse. The\ntendency of his preaching is to make one dissatisfied with one's own\nChurch.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Sheffield, \"one's memory plays one tricks, or I should say\nthat a friend of mine had said ten times as strong things against our\nChurch as any preacher in Oxford ever did.\"\n\n\"You mean me,\" said White, with earnestness; \"you have misunderstood me\ngrievously. I have ever been most faithful to the Church of England. You\nnever heard me say anything inconsistent with the warmest attachment to\nit. I have never, indeed, denied the claims of the Romish Church to be a\nbranch of the Catholic Church, nor will I,--that's another thing quite;\nthere are many things which we might borrow with great advantage from\nthe Romanists. But I have ever loved, and hope I shall ever venerate, my\nown Mother, the Church of my baptism.\"\n\nSheffield made an odd face, and no one spoke. White continued,\nattempting to preserve an unconcerned manner: \"It is remarkable,\" he\nsaid, \"that Mr. Bolton--who, though a layman, and no divine, is a\nsensible, practical, shrewd man--never liked that pulpit; he always\nprophesied no good would come of it.\"\n\nThe silence continuing, White presently fell upon Sheffield. \"I defy\nyou,\" he said, with an attempt to be jocular, \"to prove what you have\nbeen hinting; it is a great shame. It's so easy to speak against men, to\ncall them injudicious, extravagant, and so on. You are the only\nperson--\"\n\n\"Well, well, I know it, I know it,\" said Sheffield; \"we're only\ncanonizing you, and I am the devil's advocate.\"\n\nCharles wanted to hear something about Willis; so he turned the current\nof White's thoughts by coming up and asking him whether there was any\ntruth in the report he had heard from Vincent several weeks before; had\nWhite heard from him lately? White knew very little about him\ndefinitely, and was not able to say whether the report was true or not.\nSo far was certain, that he had returned from abroad and was living at\nhome. Thus he had not committed himself to the Church of Rome, whether\nas a theological student or as a novice; but he could not say more. Yes,\nhe had heard one thing more; and the subject of a letter which he had\nreceived from him corroborated it--that he was very strong on the point\nthat Romanism and Anglicanism were two religions; that you could not\namalgamate them; that you must be Roman or Anglican, but could not be\nAnglo-Roman or Anglo-Catholic. \"This is what a friend told me. In his\nletter to myself,\" White continued, \"I don't know quite what he meant,\nbut he spoke a good deal of the necessity of faith in order to be a\nCatholic. He said no one should go over merely because he thought he\nshould like it better; that he had found out by experience that no one\ncould live on sentiment; that the whole system of worship in the Romish\nChurch was different from what it is in our own; nay, the very idea of\nworship, the idea of prayers; that the doctrine of intention itself,\nviewed in all its parts, constituted a new religion. He did not speak of\nhimself definitely, but he said generally that all this might be a great\ndiscouragement to a convert, and throw him back. On the whole, the tone\nof his letter was like a person disappointed, and who might be\nreclaimed; at least, so I thought.\"\n\n\"He is a wiser, even if he is a sadder man,\" said Charles: \"I did not\nknow he had so much in him. There is more reflection in all this than so\nexcitable a person, as he seemed to me, is capable of exercising. At the\nsame time there is nothing in all this to prove that he is sorry for\nwhat he has done.\"\n\n\"I have granted this,\" said White; \"still the effect of the letter was\nto keep people back from following him, by putting obstacles in their\nway; and then we must couple this with the fact of his going home.\"\n\nCharles thought awhile. \"Vincent's testimony,\" he said, \"is either a\nconfirmation or a mere exaggeration of what you have told me, according\nas it is independent or not.\" Then he said to himself, \"White, too, has\nmore in him than I thought; he really has spoken about Willis very\nsensibly: what has come to him?\"\n\nThe paths soon divided; and while the Chalton pair took the right hand,\nCarlton and his pupils turned to the left. Soon Carlton parted from the\ntwo friends, and they reached their cottage just in time to see the\nsetting sun.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nA few days later, Carlton, Sheffield, and Reding were talking together\nafter dinner out of doors about White.\n\n\"How he is altered,\" said Charles, \"since I first knew him!\"\n\n\"Altered!\" cried Sheffield; \"he was a playful kitten once, and now he is\none of the dullest old tabbies I ever came across.\"\n\n\"Altered for the better,\" said Charles; \"he has now a steady sensible\nway of talking; but he was not a very wise person two years ago; he is\nreading, too, really hard.\"\n\n\"He has some reason,\" said Sheffield, \"for he is sadly behindhand; but\nthere is another cause of his steadiness which perhaps you know.\"\n\n\"I! no indeed,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"I thought of course you knew it,\" said Sheffield; \"you don't mean to\nsay you have not heard that he is engaged to some Oxford girl?\"\n\n\"Engaged!\" cried Charles, \"how absurd!\"\n\n\"I don't see that at all, my dear Reding,\" said Carlton. \"It's not as if\nhe could not afford it; he has a good living waiting for him; and,\nmoreover, he is thus losing no time, which is a great thing in life.\nMuch time is often lost. White will soon find himself settled in every\nsense of the word, in mind, in life, in occupation.\"\n\nCharles said that there was one thing which could not help surprising\nhim, namely, that when White first came up he was so strong in his\nadvocacy of clerical celibacy. Carlton and Sheffield laughed. \"And do\nyou think,\" said the former, \"that a youth of eighteen can have an\nopinion on such a subject, or knows himself well enough to make a\nresolution in his own case? Do you really think it fair to hold a man\ncommitted to all the random opinions and extravagant sayings into which\nhe was betrayed when he first left school?\"\n\n\"He had read some ultra-book or other,\" said Sheffield; \"or had seen\nsome beautiful nun sculptured on a chancel-screen, and was carried away\nby romance--as others have been and are.\"\n\n\"Don't you suppose,\" said Carlton, \"that those good fellows who now are\nso full of 'sacerdotal purity,' 'angelical blessedness,' and so on, will\none and all be married by this time ten years?\"\n\n\"I'll take a bet of it,\" said Sheffield: \"one will give in early, one\nlate, but there is a time destined for all. Pass some ten or twelve\nyears, as Carlton says, and we shall find A.B. on a curacy, the happy\nfather of ten children; C.D. wearing on a long courtship till a living\nfalls; E.F. in his honeymoon; G.H. lately presented by Mrs. H. with\ntwins; I.K. full of joy, just accepted; L.M. may remain what Gibbon\ncalls 'a column in the midst of ruins,' and a very tottering column\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Do you really think,\" said Charles, \"that people mean so little what\nthey say?\"\n\n\"You take matters too seriously, Reding,\" answered Carlton; \"who does\nnot change his opinions between twenty and thirty? A young man enters\nlife with his father's or tutor's views; he changes them for his own.\nThe more modest and diffident he is, the more faith he has, so much the\nlonger does he speak the words of others; but the force of\ncircumstances, or the vigour of his mind, infallibly obliges him at last\nto have a mind of his own; that is, if he is good for anything.\"\n\n\"But I suspect,\" said Reding, \"that the last generation, whether of\nfathers or tutors, had no very exalted ideas of clerical celibacy.\"\n\n\"Accidents often clothe us with opinions which we wear for a time,\" said\nCarlton.\n\n\"Well, I honour people who wear their family suit; I don't honour those\nat all who begin with foreign fashions and then abandon them.\"\n\n\"A few years more of life,\" said Carlton, smiling, \"will make your\njudgment kinder.\"\n\n\"I don't like talkers,\" continued Charles; \"I don't think I ever shall;\nI hope not.\"\n\n\"I know better what's at the bottom of it,\" said Sheffield; \"but I can't\nstay; I must go in and read; Reding is too fond of a gossip.\"\n\n\"Who talks so much as you, Sheffield?\" said Charles.\n\n\"But I talk fast when I talk,\" answered he, \"and get through a great\ndeal of work; then I give over: but you prose, and muse, and sigh, and\nprose again.\" And so he left them.\n\n\"What does he mean?\" asked Carlton.\n\nCharles slightly coloured and laughed: \"You are a man I say things to, I\ndon't to others,\" he made answer; \"as to Sheffield, he fancies he has\nfound it out of himself.\"\n\nCarlton looked round at him sharply and curiously.\n\n\"I am ashamed of myself,\" said Charles, laughing and looking confused;\n\"I have made you think that I have something important to tell, but\nreally I have nothing at all.\"\n\n\"Well, out with it,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"Why, to tell the truth,--no, really, it is too absurd. I have made a\nfool of myself.\"\n\nHe turned away, then turned back, and resumed:\n\n\"Why, it was only this, that Sheffield fancies I have some sneaking\nkindness for ... celibacy myself.\"\n\n\"Kindness for whom?\" said Carlton.\n\n\"Kindness for celibacy.\"\n\nThere was a pause, and Carlton's face somewhat changed.\n\n\"Oh, my dear good fellow,\" he said kindly, \"so you are one of them; but\nit will go off.\"\n\n\"Perhaps it will,\" said Charles: \"oh, I am laying no stress upon it. It\nwas Sheffield who made me mention it.\"\n\nA real difference of mind and view had evidently been struck upon by two\nfriends, very congenial and very fond of each other. There was a pause\nfor a few seconds.\n\n\"You are so sensible a fellow, Reding,\" said Carlton, \"it surprises me\nthat you should take up this notion.\"\n\n\"It's no new notion taken up,\" answered Charles; \"you will smile, but I\nhad it when a boy at school, and I have ever since fancied that I should\nnever marry. Not that the feeling has never intermitted, but it is the\nhabit of my mind. My general thoughts run in that one way, that I shall\nnever marry. If I did, I should dread Thalaba's punishment.\"\n\nCarlton put his hand on Reding's shoulder, and gently shook him to and\nfro; \"Well, it surprises me,\" he said; then, after a pause, \"I have been\naccustomed to think both celibacy and marriage good in their way. In the\nChurch of Rome great good, I see, comes of celibacy; but depend on it,\nmy dear Reding, you are making a great blunder if you are for\nintroducing celibacy into the Anglican Church.\"\n\n\"There's nothing against it in Prayer Book or Articles,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Perhaps not; but the whole genius, structure, working of our Church\ngoes the other way. For instance, we have no monasteries to relieve the\npoor; and if we had, I suspect, as things are, a parson's wife would, in\npractical substantial usefulness, be infinitely superior to all the\nmonks that were ever shaven. I declare, I think the Bishop of Ipswich is\nalmost justified in giving out that none but married men have a chance\nof preferment from him; nay, the Bishop of Abingdon, who makes a rule of\nbestowing his best livings as marriage portions to the most virtuous\nyoung ladies in his diocese.\" Carlton spoke with more energy than was\nusual with him.\n\nCharles answered, that he was not looking to the expediency or\nfeasibility of the thing, but at what seemed to him best in itself, and\nwhat he could not help admiring. \"I said nothing about the celibacy of\nclergy,\" he observed, \"but of celibacy generally.\"\n\n\"Celibacy has no place in our idea or our system of religion, depend on\nit,\" said Carlton. \"It is nothing to the purpose, whether there is\nanything in the Articles against it; it is not a question about formal\nenactments, but whether the genius of Anglicanism is not utterly at\nvariance with it. The experience of three hundred years is surely\nabundant for our purpose; if we don't know what our religion is in that\ntime, what time will be long enough? there are forms of religion which\nhave not lasted so long from first to last. Now enumerate the cases of\ncelibacy for celibacy's sake in that period, and what will be the sum\ntotal of them? Some instances there are; but even Hammond, who died\nunmarried, was going to marry, when his mother wished it. On the other\nhand, if you look out for types of our Church can you find truer than\nthe married excellence of Hooker the profound, Taylor the devotional,\nand Bull the polemical? The very first reformed primate is married; in\nPole and Parker, the two systems, Roman and Anglican, come into strong\ncontrast.\"\n\n\"Well, it seems to me as much a yoke of bondage,\" said Charles, \"to\ncompel marriage as to compel celibacy, and that is what you are really\ndriving at. You are telling me that any one is a black sheep who does\nnot marry.\"\n\n\"Not a very practical difficulty to you at this moment,\" said Carlton;\n\"no one is asking you to go about on Coelebs' mission just now, with\nAristotle in hand and the class-list in view.\"\n\n\"Well, excuse me,\" said Charles, \"if I have said anything very foolish;\nyou don't suppose I argue on such subjects with others.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\nThey had by this time strolled as far as Carlton's lodgings, where the\nbooks happened to be on which Charles was at that time more immediately\nemployed; and they took two or three turns under some fine beeches which\nstood in front of the house before entering it.\n\n\"Tell me, Reding,\" said Carlton, \"for really I don't understand, what\nare your reasons for admiring what, in truth, is simply an unnatural\nstate.\"\n\n\"Don't let us talk more, my dear Carlton,\" answered Reding; \"I shall go\non making a fool of myself. Let well alone, or bad alone, pray do.\"\n\nIt was evident that there was some strong feeling irritating him\ninwardly; the manner and words were too serious for the occasion.\nCarlton, too, felt strongly upon what seemed at first sight a very\nsecondary question, or he would have let it alone, as Charles asked him.\n\n\"No; as we are on the subject, let me get at your view,\" said he. \"It\nwas said in the beginning, 'Increase and multiply;' therefore celibacy\nis unnatural.\"\n\n\"Supernatural,\" said Charles, smiling.\n\n\"Is not that a word without an idea?\" asked Carlton. \"We are taught by\nButler that there is an analogy between nature and grace; else you might\nparallel paganism to nature, and where paganism is contrary to nature,\nsay that it is supernatural. The Wesleyan convulsions are preternatural;\nwhy not supernatural?\"\n\n\"I really think that our divines, or at least some of them, are on my\nside here,\" said Charles--\"Jeremy Taylor, I believe.\"\n\n\"You have not told me what you mean by supernatural,\" said Carlton; \"I\nwant to get at what _you_ think, you know.\"\n\n\"It seems to me,\" said Charles, \"that Christianity, being the perfection\nof nature, is both like it and unlike it;--like it, where it is the same\nor as much as nature; unlike it, where it is as much and more. I mean by\nsupernatural the perfection of nature.\"\n\n\"Give me an instance,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"Why, consider, Carlton; our Lord says, 'Ye have heard that it has been\nsaid of old time,--but _I_ say unto you;' that contrast denotes the more\nperfect way, or the gospel ... He came not to destroy, but to fulfil the\nlaw ... I can't recollect of a sudden; ... oh, for instance, _this_ is a\ncase in point; He abolished a permission which had been given to the\nJews because of the hardness of their hearts.\"\n\n\"Not quite in point,\" said Carlton, \"for the Jews, in their divorces,\nhad fallen _below_ nature. 'Let no man put asunder,' was the rule in\nParadise.\"\n\n\"Still, surely the idea of an Apostle, unmarried, pure, in fast and\nnakedness, and at length a martyr, is a higher idea than that of one of\nthe old Israelites sitting under his vine and fig-tree, full of temporal\ngoods, and surrounded by sons and grandsons. I am not derogating from\nGideon or Caleb; I am adding to St. Paul.\"\n\n\"St. Paul's is a very particular case,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"But he himself lays down the general maxim, that it is 'good' for a man\nto continue as he was.\"\n\n\"There we come to a question of criticism, what 'good' means: I may\nthink it means 'expedient,' and what he says about the 'present\ndistress' confirms it.\"\n\n\"Well, I won't go to criticism,\" said Charles; \"take the text, 'in sin\nhath my mother conceived me.' Do not these words show that, over and\nabove the doctrine of original sin, there is (to say the least) great\nrisk of marriage leading to sin in married people?\"\n\n\"My dear Reding,\" said Carlton, astonished, \"you are running into\nGnosticism.\"\n\n\"Not knowingly or willingly,\" answered Charles; \"but understand what I\nmean. It's not a subject I can talk about; but it seems to me, without\nof course saying that married persons must sin (which would be\nGnosticism), that there is a danger of sin. But don't let me say more on\nthis point.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Carlton, after thinking awhile, \"_I_ have been accustomed\nto consider Christianity as the perfection of man as a whole, body,\nsoul, and spirit. Don't misunderstand me. Pantheists say body and\nintellect, leaving out the moral principle; but I say spirit as well as\nmind. Spirit, or the principle of religious faith and obedience, should\nbe the master principle, the _hegemonicon_. To this both intellect and\nbody are subservient; but as this supremacy does not imply the\nill-usage, the bondage of the intellect, neither does it of the body;\nboth should be well treated.\"\n\n\"Well, I think, on the contrary, it does imply in one sense the bondage\nof intellect and body too. What is faith but the submission of the\nintellect? and as 'every high thought is brought into captivity,' so are\nwe expressly told to bring the body into subjection too. They are both\nwell treated, when they are treated so as to be made fit instruments of\nthe sovereign principle.\"\n\n\"That is what I call unnatural,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"And it is what I mean by supernatural,\" answered Reding, getting a\nlittle too earnest.\n\n\"How is it supernatural, or adding to nature, to destroy a part of it?\"\nasked Carlton.\n\nCharles was puzzled. It was a way, he said, _towards_ perfection; but he\nthought that perfection came after death, not here. Our nature could not\nbe perfect with a corruptible body; the body was treated now as a body\nof death.\n\n\"Well, Reding,\" answered Carlton, \"you make Christianity a very\ndifferent religion from what our Church considers it, I really think;\"\nand he paused awhile.\n\n\"Look here,\" he proceeded, \"how can we rejoice in Christ, as having been\nredeemed by Him, if we are in this sort of gloomy penitential state? How\nmuch is said in St. Paul about peace, thanksgiving, assurance, comfort,\nand the like! Old things are passed away; the Jewish law is destroyed;\npardon and peace are come; _that_ is the Gospel.\"\n\n\"Don't you think, then,\" said Charles, \"that we should grieve for the\nsins into which we are daily betrayed, and for the more serious offences\nwhich from time to time we may have committed?\"\n\n\"Certainly; we do so in Morning and Evening Prayer, and in the Communion\nService.\"\n\n\"Well, but supposing a youth, as is so often the case, has neglected\nreligion altogether, and has a whole load of sins, and very heinous\nones, all upon him,--do you think that, when he turns over a new leaf,\nand comes to Communion, he is, on saying the Confession (saying it with\nthat contrition with which such persons ought to say it), pardoned at\nonce, and has nothing more to fear about his past sins?\"\n\n\"I should say, 'Yes,'\" answered Carlton.\n\n\"Really,\" said Charles thoughtfully.\n\n\"Of course,\" said Carlton, \"I suppose him truly sorry or penitent:\nwhether he is so or not his future life will show.\"\n\n\"Well, somehow, I cannot master this idea,\" said Charles; \"I think most\nserious persons, even for a little sin, would go on fidgeting\nthemselves, and would not suppose they gained pardon directly they asked\nfor it.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Carlton; \"but God pardons those who do not pardon\nthemselves.\"\n\n\"That is,\" said Charles, \"who _don't_ at once feel peace, assurance, and\ncomfort; who _don't_ feel the perfect joy of the Gospel.\"\n\n\"Such persons grieve, but rejoice too,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"But tell me, Carlton,\" said Reding; \"is, or is not, their not forgiving\nthemselves, their sorrow and trouble, pleasing to God?\"\n\n\"Surely.\"\n\n\"Thus a certain self-infliction for sin committed is pleasing to Him;\nand, if so, how does it matter whether it is inflicted on mind or body?\"\n\n\"It is not properly a self-infliction,\" answered Carlton;\n\"self-infliction implies intention; grief at sin is something\nspontaneous. When you afflict yourself on purpose, then at once you pass\nfrom pure Christianity.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"I certainly fancied that fasting, abstinence,\nlabours, celibacy, might be taken as a make-up for sin. It is not a very\nfar-fetched idea. You recollect Dr. Johnson's standing in the rain in\nthe market-place at Lichfield when a man, as a penance for some\ndisobedience to his father when a boy?\"\n\n\"But, my dear Reding,\" said Carlton, \"let me bring you back to what you\nsaid originally, and to my answer to you, which what you now say only\nmakes more apposite. You began by saying that celibacy was a perfection\nof nature, now you make it a penance; first it is good and glorious,\nnext it is a medicine and punishment.\"\n\n\"Perhaps our highest perfection here is penance,\" said Charles; \"but I\ndon't know; I don't profess to have clear ideas upon the subject. I have\ntalked more than I like. Let us at length give over.\"\n\nThey did, in consequence, pass to other subjects connected with\nCharles's reading; then they entered the house, and set to upon\nPolybius; but it could not be denied that for the rest of the day\nCarlton's manner was not quite his own, as if something had annoyed him.\nNext morning he was as usual.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nIt is impossible to stop the growth of the mind. Here was Charles with\nhis thoughts turned away from religious controversy for two years, yet\nwith his religious views progressing, unknown to himself, the whole\ntime. It could not have been otherwise, if he was to live a religious\nlife at all. If he was to worship and obey his Creator, intellectual\nacts, conclusions, and judgments, must accompany that worship and\nobedience. He might not realize his own belief till questions had been\nput to him; but then a single discussion with a friend, such as the\nabove with Carlton, would bring out what he really did hold to his own\napprehension--would ascertain for him the limits of each opinion as he\nheld it, and the inter-relations of opinion with opinion. He had not yet\ngiven names to these opinions, much less had they taken a theological\nform; nor could they, under his circumstances, be expressed in\ntheological language; but here he was, a young man of twenty-two,\nprofessing in an hour's conversation with a friend, what really were the\nCatholic doctrines and usages of penance, purgatory, councils of\nperfection, mortification of self, and clerical celibacy. No wonder that\nall this annoyed Carlton, though he no more than Charles perceived that\nall this Catholicism did in fact lie hid under his professions; but he\nfelt, in what Reding put out, the presence of something, as he expressed\nit, \"very unlike the Church of England;\" something new and unpleasant to\nhim, and withal something which had a body in it, which had a momentum,\nwhich could not be passed over as a vague, sudden sound or transitory\ncloud, but which had much behind it, which made itself felt, which\nstruck heavily.\n\nAnd here we see what is meant when a person says that the Catholic\nsystem comes home to his mind, fulfils his ideas of religion, satisfies\nhis sympathies, and the like; and thereupon becomes a Catholic. Such a\nperson is often said to go by private judgment, to be choosing his\nreligion by his own standard of what a religion ought to be. Now it need\nnot be denied that those who are external to the Church must begin with\nprivate judgment; they use it in order ultimately to supersede it; as a\nman out of doors uses a lamp in a dark night, and puts it out when he\ngets home. What would be thought of his bringing it into his\ndrawing-room? what would the goodly company there assembled before a\ngenial hearth and under glittering chandeliers, the bright ladies and\nthe well-dressed gentlemen, say to him if he came in with a great-coat\non his back, a hat on his head, an umbrella under his arm, and a large\nstable-lantern in his hand? Yet what would be thought, on the other\nhand, if he precipitated himself into the inhospitable night and the war\nof the elements in his ball-dress? \"When the king came in to see the\nguests, he saw a man who had not on a wedding-garment;\" he saw a man who\ndetermined to live in the Church as he had lived out of it, who would\nnot use his privileges, who would not exchange reason for faith, who\nwould not accommodate his thoughts and doings to the glorious scene\nwhich surrounded him, who was groping for the hidden treasure and\ndigging for the pearl of price in the high, lustrous, all-jewelled\nTemple of the Lord of Hosts; who shut his eyes and speculated, when he\nmight open them and see. There is no absurdity, then, or inconsistency\nin a person first using his private judgment and then denouncing its\nuse. Circumstances change duties.\n\nBut still, after all, the person in question does not, strictly\nspeaking, judge of the external system presented to him by his private\nideas, but he brings in the dicta of that system to confirm and to\njustify certain private judgments and personal feelings and habits\nalready existing. Reding, for instance, felt a difficulty in determining\nhow and when the sins of a Christian are forgiven; he had a great notion\nthat celibacy was better than married life. He was not the first person\nin the Church of England who had had such thoughts; to numbers,\ndoubtless, before him they had occurred; but these numbers had looked\nabroad, and seen nothing around them to justify what they felt, and\ntheir feelings had, in consequence, either festered within them, or\nwithered away. But when a man, thus constituted within, falls under the\nshadow of Catholicism without, then the mighty Creed at once produces an\ninfluence upon him. He see that it justifies his thoughts, explains his\nfeelings; he understands that it numbers, corrects, harmonizes,\ncompletes them; and he is led to ask what is the authority of this\nforeign teaching; and then, when he finds it is what was once received\nin England from north to south, in England from the very time that\nChristianity was introduced here; that, as far as historical records go,\nChristianity and Catholicism are synonymous; that it is still the faith\nof the largest section of the Christian world; and that the faith of his\nown country is held nowhere but within her own limits and those of her\nown colonies; nay, further, that it is very difficult to say what faith\nshe has, or that she has any,--then he submits himself to the Catholic\nChurch, not by a process of criticism, but as a pupil to a teacher.\n\nIn saying this, of course it is not denied, on the one hand, that there\nmay be persons who come to the Catholic Church on imperfect motives, or\nin a wrong way; who choose it by criticism, and who, unsubdued by its\nmajesty and its grace, go on criticizing when they are in it; and who,\nif they persist and do not learn humility, may criticize themselves out\nof it again. Nor is it denied, on the other hand, that some who are not\nCatholics may possibly choose (for instance) Methodism, in the above\nmoral way, viz. because it confirms and justifies the inward feeling of\ntheir hearts. This is certainly possible in idea, though what there is\nvenerable, awful, superhuman, in the Wesleyan Conference to persuade one\nto take it as a prophet, is a perplexing problem; yet, after all, the\nmatter of fact we conceive to lie the other way, viz. that Wesleyans\nand other sectaries put themselves above their system, not below it; and\nthough they may in bodily position \"sit under\" their preacher, yet in\nthe position of their souls and spirits, minds and judgments, they are\nexalted high above him.\n\nBut to return to the subject of our narrative. What a mystery is the\nsoul of man! Here was Charles, busy with Aristotle and Euripides,\nThucydides and Lucretius, yet all the while growing towards the Church,\n\"to the measure of the age of the fulness of Christ.\" His mother had\nsaid to him that he could not escape his destiny; it was true, though it\nwas to be fulfilled in a way which she, affectionate heart, could not\ncompass, did not dream of. He could not escape the destiny of being one\nof the elect of God; he could not escape that destiny which the grace of\nhis Redeemer had stamped on his soul in baptism, which his good angel\nhad seen written there, and had done his zealous part to keep inviolate\nand bright, which his own co-operation with the influences of Heaven had\nconfirmed and secured. He could not escape the destiny, in due time, in\nGod's time--though it might be long, though angels might be anxious,\nthough the Church might plead as if defrauded of her promised increase\nof a stranger, yet a son; yet come it must, it was written in Heaven,\nand the slow wheels of time each hour brought it nearer--he could not\nultimately escape his destiny of becoming a Catholic. And even before\nthat blessed hour, as an opening flower scatters sweets, so the strange\nunknown odour, pleasing to some, odious to others, went abroad from him\nupon the winds, and made them marvel what could be near them, and make\nthem look curiously and anxiously at him, while he was unconscious of\nhis own condition. Let us be patient with him, as his Maker is patient,\nand bear that he should do a work slowly which he will do well.\n\nAlas! while Charles had been growing in one direction, Sheffield had\nbeen growing in another; and what that growth had been will appear from\na conversation which took place between the two friends, and which shall\nbe related in the following chapter.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nCarlton had opened the small church he was serving for Saints'-day\nservices during the Long Vacation; and not being in the way to have any\ncongregation, and the church at Horsley being closed except on Sundays,\nhe had asked his two pupils to help him in this matter, by walking over\nwith him on St. Matthew's day, which, as the season was fine, and the\nwalk far from a dull one, they were very glad to do. When church was\nover Carlton had to attend a sick call which lay still farther from\nHorsley, and the two young men walked back together.\n\n\"I did not know that Carlton was so much of a party man,\" said\nSheffield; \"did not his reading the Athanasian Creed strike you?\"\n\n\"That's no mark of party, surely,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"To read it on days like these, I think, _is_ a mark of party; it's\ngoing out of the way.\"\n\nCharles did not see how obeying in so plain a matter the clear direction\nof the Prayer Book could be a party act.\n\n\"Direction!\" said Sheffield, \"as if the question were not, is that\ndirection now binding? the sense, the understanding of the Church of\nthis day determines its obligation.\"\n\n\"The _prima facie_ view of the matter,\" said Charles, \"is, that they who\ndo but follow what the Prayer Book enjoins are of all people farthest\nfrom being a party.\"\n\n\"Not at all,\" said Sheffield; \"rigid adherence to old customs surely may\nbe the badge of a party. Now consider; ten years ago, before the study\nof Church-history was revived, neither Arianism nor Athanasianism were\nthought of at all, or, if thought of, they were considered as questions\nof words, at least as held by most minds--one as good as the other.\"\n\n\"I should say so, too, in one sense,\" said Charles, \"that is, I should\nhope that numbers of persons, for instance, the unlearned, who were in\nArian communities spoke Arian language, and yet did not mean it. I think\nI have heard that some ancient missionary of the Goths or Huns was an\nArian.\"\n\n\"Well, I will speak more precisely,\" said Sheffield: \"an Oxford man,\nsome ten years since, was going to publish a history of the Nicene\nCouncil, and the bookseller proposed to him to prefix an engraving of\nSt. Athanasius, which he had found in some old volume. He was strongly\ndissuaded from doing so by a brother clergyman, not from any feeling of\nhis own, but because 'Athanasius was a very unpopular name among us.'\"\n\n\"One swallow does not make a spring,\" said Charles.\n\n\"This clergyman,\" continued Sheffield, \"was a friend of the most\nHigh-Church writers of the day.\"\n\n\"Of course,\" said Reding, \"there has always been a heterodox school in\nour Church--I know that well enough--but it never has been powerful.\nYour lax friend was one of them.\"\n\n\"I believe not, indeed,\" answered Sheffield; \"he lived out of\ncontroversy, was a literary, accomplished person, and a man of piety to\nboot. He did not express any feeling of his own; he did but witness to a\nfact, that the name of Athanasius was unpopular.\"\n\n\"So little was known about history,\" said Charles, \"this is not\nsurprising. St. Athanasius, you know, did not write the Creed called\nafter him. It is possible to think him intemperate, without thinking the\nCreed wrong.\"\n\n\"Well, then, again; there's Beatson, Divinity Professor; no one will\ncall him in any sense a party man; he was put in by the Tories, and\nnever has committed himself to any liberal theories in theology. Now, a\nman who attended his private lectures assures me that he told the men,\n'D'ye see,' said he, 'I take it, that the old Church-of-England mode of\nhandling the Creed went out with Bull. After Locke wrote, the old\northodox phraseology came into disrepute.'\"\n\n\"Well, perhaps he meant,\" said Charles, \"that learning died away, which\nwas the case. The old theological language is plainly a learned\nlanguage; when fathers and schoolmen were not read, of course it would\nbe in abeyance; when they were read again, it has revived.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" answered Sheffield, \"he said much more on another occasion.\nSpeaking of Creeds, and the like, 'I hold,' he said, 'that the majority\nof the educated laity of our Church are Sabellians.'\"\n\nCharles was silent, and hardly knew what reply to make. Sheffield went\non: \"I was present some years ago, when I was quite a boy, when a sort\nof tutor of mine was talking to one of the most learned and orthodox\ndivines of the day, a man whose name has never been associated with\nparty, and the near relation and connexion of high dignitaries, about a\nplan of his own for writing a history of the Councils. This good and\nable man listened with politeness, applauded the project; then added, in\na laughing way, 'You know you have chosen just the dullest subject in\nChurch-history. Now the Councils begin with the Nicene Creed, and\nembrace nearly all doctrinal subjects whatever.'\"\n\n\"My dear Sheffield,\" said Charles, \"you have fallen in with a particular\nset or party of men yourself; very respectable, good men, I don't doubt,\nbut no fair specimens of the whole Church.\"\n\n\"I don't bring them as authorities,\" answered Sheffield, \"but as\nwitnesses.\"\n\n\"Still,\" said Charles, \"I know perfectly well, that there was a\ncontroversy at the end of the last century between Bishop Horsley and\nothers, in which he brought out distinctly one part at least of the\nAthanasian doctrine.\"\n\n\"His controversy was not a defence of the Athanasian Creed, I know\nwell,\" said Sheffield; \"for the subject came into Upton's\nArticle-lecture; it was with Priestley; but, whatever it was, divines\nwould only think it all very fine, just as his 'Sermons on Prophecy.' It\nis another question whether they would recognize the worth either of the\none or of the other. They receive the scholastic terms about the\nTrinity just as they receive the doctrine that the Pope is Antichrist.\nWhen Horsley says the latter, or something of the kind, good old\nclergymen say, 'Certainly, certainly, oh yes, it's the old\nChurch-of-England doctrine,' thinking it right, indeed, to be\nmaintained, but not caring themselves to maintain it, or at most\nprofessing it just when mentioned, but not really thinking about it from\none year's end to the other. And so with regard to the doctrine of the\nTrinity, they say, 'the great Horsley,' 'the powerful Horsley;' they\ndon't indeed dispute his doctrine, but they don't care about it; they\nlook on him as a doughty champion, armed _cap-a-pie_, who has put down\ndissent, who has cut off the head of some impudent non-protectionist, or\ninsane chartist, or spouter in a vestry, who, under cover of theology,\nhad run a tilt against tithes and church-rates.\"\n\n\"I can't think so badly of our present divines,\" said Charles; \"I know\nthat in this very place there are various orthodox writers, whom no one\nwould call party men.\"\n\n\"Stop,\" said Sheffield, \"understand me, I was not speaking _against_\nthem. I was but saying that these anti-Athanasian views were not\nunfrequent. I have been in the way of hearing a good deal on the subject\nat my private tutor's, and have kept my eyes about me since I have been\nhere. The Bishop of Derby was a friend of Sheen's, my private tutor, and\ngot his promotion when I was with the latter; and Sheen told me that he\nwrote to him on that occasion, 'What shall I read? I don't know anything\nof theology.' I rather think he was recommended, or proposed to read\nScott's Bible.\"\n\n\"It's easy to bring instances,\" said Charles, \"when you have all your\nown way; what you say is evidently all an _ex-parte_ statement.\"\n\n\"Take again Shipton, who died lately,\" continued Sheffield; \"what a high\nposition he held in the Church; yet it is perfectly well known that he\nthought it a mistake to use the word 'Person' in the doctrine of the\nTrinity. What makes this stranger is, that he was so very severe on\nclergymen (Tractarians, for instance) who evade the sense of the\nArticles. Now he was a singularly honest, straightforward man; he\ndespised money; he cared nothing for public opinion; yet he was a\nSabellian. Would he have eaten the bread of the Church, as it is called,\nfor a day, unless he had felt that his opinions were not inconsistent\nwith his profession as Dean of Bath, and Prebendary of Dorchester? Is it\nnot plain that he considered the practice of the Church to have\nmodified, to have re-interpreted its documents?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Charles, \"the practice of the Church cannot make black\nwhite; or, if a sentence means yes, make it mean no. I won't deny that\nwords are often vague and uncertain in their sense, and frequently need\na comment, so that the teaching of the day has great influence in\ndetermining their sense; but the question is, whether the\ncounter-teaching of every dean, every prebendary, every clergyman, every\nbishop in the whole Church, could make the Athanasian Creed Sabellian; I\nthink not.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" answered Sheffield; \"but the clergymen I speak of\nsimply say that they are not bound to the details of the Creed, only to\nthe great outline that there is _a_ Trinity.\"\n\n\"Great outline!\" said Charles, \"great stuff! an Unitarian would not deny\nthat. He, of course, believes in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; though he\nthinks the Son a creature, and the Spirit an influence.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't deny,\" said Sheffield, \"that if Dean Shipton was a sound\nmember of the Church, Dr. Priestley might have been also. But my doubt\nis, whether, if the Tractarian school had not risen, Priestley might not\nhave been, had he lived to this time, I will not say a positively sound\nmember, but sound enough for preferment.\"\n\n\"_If_ the Tractarian school had not risen! that is but saying if our\nChurch was other than it is. What is that school but a birth, an\noffspring of the Church? and if the Church had not given birth to one\nparty of men for its defence, it would have given birth to another.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Sheffield, \"I assure you the old school of doctrine was\nall but run out when they began; and I declare I wish they had let\nthings alone. There was the doctrine of the Apostolical Succession; a\nfew good old men were its sole remaining professors in the Church; and a\ngreat ecclesiastical personage, on one occasion, quite scoffed at their\npersisting to hold it. He maintained the doctrine went out with the\nnon-jurors. 'You are so few,' he said, 'that we can count you.'\"\n\nCharles was not pleased with the subject, on various accounts. He did\nnot like what seemed to him an attack of Sheffield's upon the Church of\nEngland; and, besides, he began to feel uncomfortable misgivings and\ndoubts whether that attack was not well founded, to which he did not\nlike to be exposed. Accordingly he kept silence, and, after a short\ninterval, attempted to change the subject; but Sheffield's hand was in,\nand he would not be balked; so he presently began again. \"I have been\nspeaking,\" he said, \"of the liberal section of our Church. There are\nfour parties in the Church. Of these the old Tory, or country party,\nwhich is out-and-out the largest, has no opinion at all, but merely\ntakes up the theology or no-theology of the day, and cannot properly be\nsaid to 'hold' what the Creed calls 'the Catholic faith.' It does not\ndeny it; it may not knowingly disbelieve it; but it gives no signs of\nactually holding it, beyond the fact that it treats it with respect. I\nwill venture to say, that not a country parson of them all, from year's\nend to year's end, makes once a year what Catholics call 'an act of\nfaith' in that special and very distinctive mystery contained in the\nclauses of the Athanasian Creed.\"\n\nThen, seeing Charles looked rather hurt, he added, \"I am not speaking of\nany particular clergyman here or there, but of the great majority of\nthem. After the Tory party comes the Liberal; which also dislikes the\nAthanasian Creed, as I have said. Thirdly, as to the Evangelical; I know\nyou have one of the Nos. of the 'Tracts for the Times' about objective\nfaith. Now that tract seems to prove that the Evangelical party is\nimplicitly Sabellian, and is tending to avow that belief. This too has\nbeen already the actual course of Evangelical doctrine both on the\nContinent and in America. The Protestants of Geneva, Holland, Ulster,\nand Boston have all, I believe, become Unitarians, or the like. Dr. Adam\nClarke too, the celebrated Wesleyan, held the distinguishing Sabellian\ntenet, as Doddridge is said to have done before him. All this\nconsidered, I do think I have made out a good case for my original\nassertion, that at this time of day it is a party thing to go out of the\nway to read the Athanasian Creed.\"\n\n\"I don't agree with you at all,\" said Charles; \"you say a great deal\nmore than you have a warrant to do, and draw sweeping conclusions from\nslender premisses. This, at least, is what it seems to me. I wish too\nyou would not so speak of 'making out a case.' It is as if these things\nwere mere topics for disputation. And I don't like your taking the wrong\nside; you are rather fond of doing so.\"\n\n\"Reding,\" answered Sheffield, \"I speak what I think, and ever will do\nso; I will be no party man. I don't attempt, like Vincent, to unite\nopposites. He is of all parties, I am of none. I think I see pretty well\nthe hollowness of all.\"\n\n\"O my dear Sheffield,\" cried Charles, in distress, \"think what you are\nsaying; you don't mean what you say. You are speaking as if you thought\nthat belief in the Athanasian Creed was a mere party opinion.\"\n\nSheffield first was silent; then he said, \"Well, I beg your pardon, if\nI have said anything to annoy you, or have expressed myself\nintemperately. But surely one has no need to believe what so many people\neither disbelieve or disregard.\"\n\nThe subject then dropped; and presently Carlton overtook them on the\nfarmer's pony, which he had borrowed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nReding had for near two years put aside his doubts about the Articles;\nbut it was like putting off the payment of a bill--a respite, not a\ndeliverance. The two conversations which we have been recording,\nbringing him to issue on most important subjects first with one, then\nwith another, of two intimate friends, who were bound by the Articles as\nwell as he, uncomfortably reminded him of his debt to the University and\nChurch; and the nearer approach of his examination and degree inflicted\non him the thought that the time was coming when he must be prepared to\ndischarge it.\n\nOne day, when he was strolling out with Carlton, toward the end of the\nVacation, he had been led to speak of the number of religious opinions\nand parties in Oxford, which had so many bad effects, making so many\ntalk, so many criticise, and not a few perhaps doubt about truth\naltogether. Then he said that, evil as it was in a place of education,\nyet he feared it was unavoidable, if Carlton's doctrine about parties\nwere correct; for if there was a place where differences of religious\nopinions would show themselves, it would be in a university.\n\n\"I am far from denying it,\" said Carlton; \"but all systems have their\ndefects; no polity, no theology, no ritual is perfect. One only came\ndirectly and simply from Heaven, the Jewish; and even that was removed\nbecause of its unprofitableness. This is no derogation from the\nperfection of Divine Revelation, for it arises from the subject-matter\non and through which it operates.\" There was a pause; then Carlton went\non: \"It is the fault of most young thinkers to be impatient, if they do\nnot find perfection in everything; they are 'new brooms.'\" Another\npause; he went on again: \"What form of religion is _less_ objectionable\nthan ours? You _see_ the inconveniences of your own system, for you\nexperience them; you have not felt, and cannot know, those of others.\"\n\nCharles was still silent, and went on plucking and chewing leaves from\nthe shrubs and bushes through which their path winded. At length he\nsaid, \"_I_ should not like to say it to any one but you, Carlton, but,\ndo you know, I was very uncomfortable about the Articles, going on for\ntwo years since; I really could not understand them, and their history\nmakes matters worse. I put the subject from me altogether; but now that\nmy examination and degree are coming on, I must take it up again.\"\n\n\"You must have been put into the Article-lecture early,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"Well, perhaps I was not up to the subject,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"I didn't mean that,\" said Carlton; \"but as to the thing itself, my dear\nfellow, it happens every day, and especially to thoughtful people like\nyourself. It should not annoy you.\"\n\n\"But my fidget is,\" said Charles, \"lest my difficulties should return,\nand I should not be able to remove them.\"\n\n\"You should take all these things calmly,\" said Carlton; \"all things, as\nI have said, have their difficulties. If you wait till everything is as\nit should be or might be conceivably, you will do nothing, and will lose\nlife. The moral and social world is not an open country; it is already\nmarked and mapped out; it has its roads. You can't go across country; if\nyou attempt a steeple-chase, you will break your neck for your pains.\nForms of religion are facts; they have each their history. They existed\nbefore you were born, and will survive you. You must choose, you cannot\nmake.\"\n\n\"I know,\" said Reding, \"I can't make a religion, nor can I perhaps find\none better than my own. I don't want to do so; but this is not my\ndifficulty. Take your own image. I am jogging along my own old road, and\nlo, a high turnpike, fast locked; and my poor pony can't clear it. I\ndon't complain; but there's the fact, or at least may be.\"\n\n\"The pony must,\" answered Carlton; \"or if not, there must be some way\nabout; else what is the good of a road? In religion all roads have their\nobstacles; one has a strong gate across it, another goes through a bog.\nIs no one to go on? Is religion to be at a deadlock? Is Christianity to\ndie out? Where else will you go? Not surely to Methodism, or\nPlymouth-brotherism. As to the Romish Church, I suspect it has more\ndifficulties than we have. You _must_ sacrifice your private judgment.\"\n\n\"All this is very good,\" answered Charles; \"but what is very expedient\nstill may be very impossible. The finest words about the necessity of\ngetting home before nightfall will not enable my poor little pony to\ntake the gate.\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Carlton; \"but if you had a command from a\nbenevolent Prince, your own Sovereign and Benefactor, to go along the\nroad steadily till evening, and he would meet you at the end of your\njourney, you would be quite sure that he who had appointed the end had\nalso assigned the means. And, in the difficulty in question, you ought\nto look out for some mode of opening the gate, or some gap in the hedge,\nor some parallel cut, some way or other, which would enable you to turn\nthe difficulty.\"\n\nCharles said that somehow he did not like this mode of arguing; it\nseemed dangerous; he did not see whither it went, where it ended.\nPresently he said, abruptly, \"Why do you think there are more\ndifficulties in the Church of Rome?\"\n\n\"Clearly there are,\" answered Carlton; \"if the Articles are a crust, is\nnot Pope Pius's Creed a bone?\"\n\n\"I don't know Pope Pius's Creed,\" said Charles; \"I know very little\nabout the state of the case, certainly. What does it say?\"\n\n\"Oh, it includes transubstantiation, purgatory, saint-worship, and the\nrest,\" said Carlton; \"I suppose you could not quite subscribe these?\"\n\n\"It depends,\" answered Charles slowly, \"on this--on what authority they\ncame to me.\" He stopped, and then went on: \"Of course I could, if they\ncame to me on the same authority as the doctrine of the Blessed Trinity\ncomes. Now, the Articles come on no authority; they are the views of\npersons in the 16th century; and, again, it is not clear how far they\nare, or are not, modified by the unauthoritative views of the 19th. I am\nobliged, then, to exercise my own judgment; and I candidly declare to\nyou, that my judgment is unequal to so great a task. At least, this is\nwhat troubles me, whenever the subject rises in my mind; for I have put\nit from me.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Carlton, \"take them on _faith_.\"\n\n\"You mean, I suppose,\" said Charles, \"that I must consider our Church\n_infallible_.\"\n\nCarlton felt the difficulty; he answered, \"No, but you must act _as if_\nit were infallible, from a sense of duty.\"\n\nCharles smiled; then he looked grave; he stood still, and his eyes fell.\n\"If I _am_ to make a Church infallible,\" he said, \"if I _must_ give up\nprivate judgment, if I _must_ act on faith, there _is_ a Church which\nhas a greater claim on us all than the Church of England.\"\n\n\"My dear Reding,\" said Carlton, with some emotion, \"where did you get\nthese notions?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" answered Charles; \"somebody has said that they were in\nthe air. I have talked to no one, except one or two arguments I had with\ndifferent persons in my first year. I have driven the subject from me;\nbut when I once begin, you see it will out.\"\n\nThey walked on awhile in silence. \"Do you really mean to say,\" asked\nCarlton at length, \"that it is so difficult to understand and receive\nthe Articles? To me they are quite clear enough, and speak the language\nof common sense.\"\n\n\"Well, they seem to me,\" said Reding, \"sometimes inconsistent with\nthemselves, sometimes with the Prayer Book; so that I am suspicious of\nthem; I don't know _what_ I am signing when I sign, yet I ought to sign\n_ex-animo_. A blind submission I could make; I cannot make a blind\ndeclaration.\"\n\n\"Give me some instances,\" said Carlton.\n\n\"For example,\" said Charles, \"they distinctly receive the Lutheran\ndoctrine of justification by faith only, which the Prayer Book virtually\nopposes in every one of its Offices. They refer to the Homilies as\nauthority, yet the Homilies speak of the books of the Apocrypha as\ninspired, which the Articles implicitly deny. The Articles about\nOrdination are in their spirit contrary to the Ordination Service. One\nArticle on the Sacraments speaks the doctrine of Melancthon, another\nthat of Calvin. One Article speaks of the Church's authority in\ncontroversies of faith, yet another makes Scripture the ultimate appeal.\nThese are what occur to me at the moment.\"\n\n\"Surely, many of these are but verbal difficulties, at the very first\nglance,\" said Carlton, \"and all may be surmounted with a little care.\"\n\n\"On the other hand, it has struck me,\" continued Charles, \"that the\nChurch of Rome is undeniably consistent in her formularies; this is the\nvery charge some of our writers make upon her, that she is so\nsystematic. It may be a hard, iron system, but it is consistent.\"\n\nCarlton did not wish to interrupt him, thinking it best to hear his\nwhole difficulty; so Charles proceeded: \"When a system is consistent, at\nleast it does not condemn itself. Consistency is not truth, but truth is\nconsistency. Now, I am not a fit judge whether or not a certain system\nis true, but I may be quite a judge whether it is consistent with\nitself. When an oracle equivocates it carries with it its own\ncondemnation. I almost think there is something in Scripture on this\nsubject, comparing in this respect the pagan and the inspired\nprophecies. And this has struck me, too, that St. Paul gives this very\naccount of a heretic, that he is 'condemned of himself,' bearing his own\ncondemnation on his face. Moreover, I was once in the company of\nFreeborn (I don't know if you are acquainted with him) and others of the\nEvangelical party, and they showed plainly, if they were to be trusted,\nthat Luther and Melancthon did not agree together on the prime point of\njustification by faith; a circumstance which had not come into the\nArticle-lecture. Also I have read somewhere, or heard in some sermon,\nthat the ancient heretics always were inconsistent, never could state\nplainly their meaning, much less agree together; and thus, whether they\nwould or no, could not help giving to the simple a warning of their true\ncharacter, as if by their rattle.\"\n\nCharles stopped; presently he continued: \"This too has struck me; that\neither there is no prophet of the truth on earth, or the Church of Rome\nis that prophet. That there is a prophet still, or apostle, or\nmessenger, or teacher, or whatever he is to be called, seems evident by\nour believing in a visible Church. Now common sense tells us what a\nmessenger from God must be; first, he must not contradict himself, as I\nhave just been saying. Again, a prophet of God can allow of no rival,\nbut denounces all who make a separate claim, as the prophets do in\nScripture. Now, it is impossible to say whether our Church acknowledges\nor not Lutheranism in Germany, Calvinism in Switzerland, the Nestorian\nand Monophysite bodies in the East. Nor does it clearly tell us what\nview it takes of the Church of Rome. The only place where it recognizes\nits existence is in the Homilies, and there it speaks of it as\nAntichrist. Nor has the Greek Church any intelligible position in\nAnglican doctrine. On the other hand, the Church of Rome has this _prima\nfacie_ mark of a prophet, that, like a prophet in Scripture, it admits\nno rival, and anathematizes all doctrine counter to its own. There's\nanother thing: a prophet of God is of course at home with his message;\nhe is not helpless and do-nothing in the midst of errors and in the war\nof opinions. He knows what has been given him to declare, how far it\nextends; he can act as an umpire; he is equal to emergencies. This again\ntells in favour of the Church of Rome. As age after age comes she is\never on the alert, questions every new comer, sounds the note of alarm,\nhews down strange doctrine, claims and locates and perfects what is new\nand true. The Church of Rome inspires me with confidence; I feel I can\ntrust her. It is another thing whether she is true; I am not pretending\nnow to decide that. But I do not feel the like trust in our own Church.\nI love her more than I trust her. She leaves me without faith. Now you\nsee the state of my mind.\" He fetched a deep, sharp sigh, as if he had\ngot a load off him.\n\n\"Well,\" said Carlton, when he had stopped, \"this is all very pretty\ntheory; whether it holds in matter of fact, is another question. We have\nbeen accustomed hitherto to think Chillingworth right, when he talks of\npopes against popes, councils against councils, and so on. Certainly you\nwill not be allowed by Protestant controversialists to assume this\nperfect consistency in Romish doctrine. The truth is, you have read very\nlittle; and you judge of truth, not by facts, but by notions; I mean,\nyou think it enough if a notion hangs together; though you disavow it,\nstill, in matter of fact, consistency _is_ truth to you. Whether facts\nanswer to theories you cannot tell, and you don't inquire. Now I am not\nwell read in the subject, but I know enough to be sure that Romanists\nwill have more work to prove their consistency than you anticipate. For\ninstance, they appeal to the Fathers, yet put the Pope above them; they\nmaintain the infallibility of the Church, and prove it by Scripture, and\nthen they prove Scripture by the Church. They think a General Council\ninfallible, _when_, but not _before_, the Pope has ratified it;\nBellarmine, I think, gives a list of General Councils which have erred.\nAnd I never have been able to make out the Romish doctrine of\nIndulgences.\"\n\nCharles thought over this; then he said, \"Perhaps the case is as you\nsay, that I ought to know the matter of fact more exactly before\nattempting to form a judgment on the subject; but, my dear Carlton, I\nprotest to you, and you may think with what distress I say it, that if\nthe Church of Rome is as ambiguous as our own Church, I shall be in the\nway to become a sceptic, on the very ground that I shall have no\ncompetent authority to tell me what to believe. The Ethiopian said, 'How\ncan I know, unless some man do teach me?' and St. Paul says, 'Faith\ncometh by hearing.' If no one claims my faith, how can I exercise it? At\nleast I shall run the risk of becoming a Latitudinarian; for if I go by\nScripture only, certainly there is no creed given us in Scripture.\"\n\n\"Our business,\" said Carlton, \"is to make the best of things, not the\nworst. Do keep this in mind; be on your guard against a strained and\nmorbid view of things. Be cheerful, be natural, and all will be easy.\"\n\n\"You are always kind and considerate,\" said Charles; \"but, after all--I\nwish I could make you see it--you have not a word to say by way of\nmeeting my original difficulty of subscription. How am I to leap over\nthe wall? It's nothing to the purpose that other communions have their\nwalls also.\"\n\nThey now neared home, and concluded their walk in silence, each being\nfully occupied with the thoughts which the conversation had suggested.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nThe Vacation passed away silently and happily. Day succeeded day in\nquiet routine employments, bringing insensible but sure accessions to\nthe stock of knowledge and to the intellectual proficiency of both our\nstudents. Historians and orators were read for a last time, and laid\naside; sciences were digested; commentaries were run through; and\nanalyses and abstracts completed. It was emphatically a silent toil.\nWhile others might be steaming from London to Bombay or the Havannah,\nand months in the retrospect might look like years, with Reding and\nSheffield the week had scarcely begun when it was found to be ending;\nand when October came, and they saw their Oxford friends again, at first\nthey thought they had a good deal to say to them, but when they tried,\nthey found it did but concern minute points of their own reading and\npersonal matters; and they were reduced to silence with the wish to\nspeak.\n\nThe season had changed, and reminded them that Horsley was a place for\nsummer sojourn, not a dwelling. There were heavy raw fogs hanging about\nthe hills, and storms of wind and rain. The grass no longer afforded\nthem a seat; and when they betook themselves indoors it was discovered\nthat the doors and windows did not shut close, and that the chimney\nsmoked. Then came those fruits, the funeral feast of the year,\nmulberries and walnuts; the tasteless, juiceless walnut; the dark\nmulberry, juicy but severe, and mouldy withal, as gathered not from the\ntree, but from the damp earth. And thus that green spot itself weaned\nthem from the love of it. Charles looked around him, and rose to depart\nas a _conviva satur_. \"_Edisti satis, tempus abire_\" seemed written upon\nall. The swallows had taken leave; the leaves were paling; the light\nbroke late, and failed soon. The hopes of spring, the peace and calm of\nsummer, had given place to the sad realities of autumn. He was hurrying\nto the world, who had been up on the mount; he had lived without jars,\nwithout distractions, without disappointments; and he was now to take\nthem as his portion. For he was but a child of Adam; Horsley had been\nbut a respite; and he had vividly presented to his memory the sad\nreverse which came upon him two years before--what a happy summer--what\na forlorn autumn! With these thoughts, he put up his books and papers,\nand turned his face towards St. Saviour's.\n\nOxford, too, was not quite what it had been to him; the freshness of his\nadmiration for it was over; he now saw defects where at first all was\nexcellent and good; the romance of places and persons had passed away.\nAnd there were changes too: of his contemporaries some had already taken\ntheir degrees and left; others were reading in the country; others had\ngone off to other Colleges on Fellowships. A host of younger faces had\nsprung up in hall and chapel, and he hardly knew their names. Rooms\nwhich formerly had been his familiar lounge were now tenanted by\nstrangers, who claimed to have that right in them which, to his\nimagination, could only attach to those who had possessed them when he\nhimself came into residence. The College seemed to have deteriorated;\nthere was a rowing set, which had not been there before, a number of\nboys, and a large proportion of snobs.\n\nBut, what was a real trouble to Charles, it got clearer and clearer to\nhis apprehension that his intimacy with Sheffield was not quite what it\nhad been. They had, indeed, passed the Vacation together, and saw of\neach other more than ever: but their sympathies in each other were not\nas strong, they had not the same likings and dislikings; in short, they\nhad not such congenial minds as they fancied when they were freshmen.\nThere was not so much heart in their conversations, and they more easily\nendured to miss each other's company. They were both reading for\nhonours--reading hard; but Sheffield's whole heart was in his work, and\nreligion was but a secondary matter to him. He had no doubts,\ndifficulties, anxieties, sorrows, which much affected him. It was not\nthe certainty of faith which made a sunshine to his soul, and dried up\nthe mists of human weakness; rather, he had no perceptible need within\nhim of that vision of the Unseen which is the Christian's life. He was\nunblemished in his character, exemplary in his conduct; but he was\ncontent with what the perishable world gave him. Charles's\ncharacteristic, perhaps above anything else, was an habitual sense of\nthe Divine Presence; a sense which, of course, did not insure\nuninterrupted conformity of thought and deed to itself, but still there\nit was--the pillar of the cloud before him and guiding him. He felt\nhimself to be God's creature, and responsible to Him--God's possession,\nnot his own. He had a great wish to succeed in the schools; a thrill\ncame over him when he thought of it; but ambition was not his life; he\ncould have reconciled himself in a few minutes to failure. Thus\ndisposed, the only subjects on which the two friends freely talked\ntogether were connected with their common studies. They read together,\nexamined each other, used and corrected each other's papers, and solved\neach other's difficulties. Perhaps it scarcely came home to Sheffield,\nsharp as he was, that there was any flagging of their intimacy.\nReligious controversy had been the food of his active intellect when it\nwas novel; now it had lost its interest, and his books took its place.\nBut it was far different with Charles; he had felt interest in religious\nquestions for their own sake; and when he had deprived himself of the\npursuit of them it had been a self-denial. Now, then, when they seemed\nforced on him again, Sheffield could not help him, where he most wanted\nthe assistance of a friend.\n\nA still more tangible trial was coming on him. The reader has to be told\nthat there was at that time a system of espionage prosecuted by various\nwell-meaning men, who thought it would be doing the University a service\nto point out such of its junior members as were what is called\n\"papistically inclined.\" They did not perceive the danger such a course\ninvolved of disposing young men towards Catholicism, by attaching to\nthem the bad report of it, and of forcing them farther by inflicting on\nthem the inconsistencies of their position. Ideas which would have lain\ndormant or dwindled away in their minds were thus fixed, defined,\nlocated within them; and the fear of the world's censure no longer\nserved to deter, when it had been actually incurred. When Charles\nattended the tea-party at Freeborn's he was on his trial; he was\nintroduced not only into a school, but into an inquisition; and since he\ndid not promise to be a subject for spiritual impression, he was\nforthwith a subject for spiritual censure. He became a marked man in the\ncircles of Capel Hall and St. Mark's. His acquaintance with Willis; the\nquestions he had asked at the Article-lecture; stray remarks at\nwine-parties--were treasured up, and strengthened the case against him.\nOne time, on coming into his rooms, he found Freeborn, who had entered\nto pay him a call, prying into his books. A volume of sermons, of the\nschool of the day, borrowed of a friend for the sake of illustrating\nAristotle, lay on his table; and in his bookshelves one of the more\nphilosophical of the \"Tracts for the Times\" was stuck in between a\nHermann _De Metris_ and a Thucydides. Another day his bedroom door was\nopen, and No. 2 of the tea-party saw one of Overbeck's sacred prints\npinned up against the wall.\n\nFacts like these were, in most cases, delated to the Head of the House\nto which a young man belonged; who, as a vigilant guardian of the purity\nof his undergraduates' Protestantism, received the information with\nthankfulness, and perhaps asked the informer to dinner. It cannot be\ndenied that in some cases this course of action succeeded in frightening\nand sobering the parties towards whom it was directed. White was thus\nreclaimed to be a devoted son and useful minister of the Church of\nEngland; but it was a kill-or-cure remedy, and not likely to answer with\nthe more noble or the more able minds. What effect it had upon Charles,\nor whether any, must be determined by the sequel; here it will suffice\nto relate interviews which took place between him and the Principal and\nVice-Principal of his College in consequence of it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\nWhen Reding presented himself to the Vice-Principal, the Rev. Joshua\nJennings, to ask for leave to reside in lodgings for the two terms\nprevious to his examination, he was met with a courteous but decided\nrefusal. It took him altogether by surprise; he had considered the\nrequest as a mere matter of form. He sat half a minute silent, and then\nrose to take his departure. The colour came to his cheek; it was a\nrepulse inflicted only on idle men who could not be trusted beyond the\neye of the Dean of the College.\n\nThe Vice-Principal seemed to expect him to ask the reason of his\nproceeding; as Charles, in his confusion, did not seem likely to do so,\nhe condescended to open the conversation. It was not meant as any\nreflection, he said, on Mr. Reding's moral conduct; he had ever been a\nwell-conducted young man, and had quite carried out the character with\nwhich he had come from school; but there were duties to be observed\ntowards the community, and its undergraduate portion must be protected\nfrom the contagion of principles which were too rife at the moment.\nCharles was, if possible, still more surprised, and suggested that there\nmust be some misunderstanding if he had been represented to the\nVice-Principal as connected with any so-called party in the place. \"You\ndon't mean to deny that there _is_ a party, Mr. Reding,\" answered the\nCollege authority, \"by that form of expression?\" He was a lean, pale\nperson, with a large hook-nose and spectacles; and seemed, though a\nliberal in creed, to be really a nursling of that early age when\nAnabaptists fed the fires of Smithfield. From his years, practised\ntalent, and position, he was well able to browbeat an unhappy juvenile\nwho incurred his displeasure; and, though he really was a kind-hearted\nman at bottom, he not unfrequently misused his power. Charles did not\nknow how to answer his question; and on his silence it was repeated. At\nlength he said that really he was not in a condition to speak against\nany one; and if he spoke of a so-called party, it was that he might not\nseem disrespectful to some who might be better men than himself. Mr.\nVice was silent, but not from being satisfied.\n\n\"What would _you_ call a party, Mr. Reding?\" he said at length; \"what\nwould be your definition of it?\"\n\nCharles paused to think; at last he said: \"Persons who band together on\ntheir own authority for the maintenance of views of their own.\"\n\n\"And will you say that these gentlemen have not views of their own?\"\nasked Mr. Jennings.\n\nCharles assented.\n\n\"What is your view of the Thirty-nine Articles?\" said the Vice-Principal\nabruptly.\n\n\"_My_ view!\" thought Charles; \"what can he mean? my _view_ of the\nArticles! like my opinion of things in general. Does he mean my 'view'\nwhether they are English or Latin, long or short, good or bad, expedient\nor not, Catholic or not, Calvinistic or Erastian?\"\n\nMeanwhile Jennings kept steadily regarding him, and Charles got more and\nmore confused. \"I think,\" he said, making a desperate snatch at\nauthoritative words, \"I think that the Articles 'contain a godly and\nwholesome doctrine, and necessary for these times.'\"\n\n\"_That_ is the Second Book of Homilies, Mr. Reding, not the Articles.\nBesides, I want your own opinion on the subject.\" He proceeded, after a\npause: \"What is justification?\"\n\n\"Justification,\" ... said Charles, repeating the word, and thinking;\nthen, in the words of the Article, he went on: \"We are accounted\nrighteous before God, but only for the merit of our Lord Jesus Christ,\nby faith, and not by our own works and deservings.\"\n\n\"Right,\" said Jennings; \"but you have not answered my question. What\n_is_ justification?\"\n\nThis was very hard, for it was one of Charles's puzzles what\njustification was in itself, for the Articles do not define it any more\nthan faith. He answered to this effect, that the Articles did not define\nit. The Vice-Principal looked dissatisfied.\n\n\"Can General Councils err?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Charles. This was right.\n\n\"What do Romanists say about them?\"\n\n\"They think they err, too.\" This was all wrong.\n\n\"No,\" said Jennings, \"they think them infallible.\"\n\nCharles was silent; Jennings tried to force his decision upon him.\n\nAt length Charles said that \"Only some General Councils were admitted as\ninfallible by the Romanists, and he believed that Bellarmine gave a list\nof General Councils which had erred.\"\n\nAnother pause, and a gathering cloud on Jennings' brow.\n\nHe returned to his former subject. \"In what sense do you understand the\nArticles, Mr. Reding?\" he asked. That was more than Charles could tell;\nhe wished very much to know the right sense of them; so he beat about\nfor the _received_ answer.\n\n\"In the sense of Scripture,\" he said. This was true, but nugatory.\n\n\"Rather,\" said Jennings, \"you understand Scripture in the sense of the\nArticles.\"\n\nCharles assented for peace-sake. But his concession availed not; the\nVice-Principal pursued his advantage.\n\n\"They must not interpret each other, Mr. Reding, else you revolve in a\ncircle. Let me repeat my question. In what sense do you interpret the\nArticles?\"\n\n\"I wish to take them,\" Reding answered, \"in the general and received\nsense of our Church, as all our divines and present Bishops take them.\"\n\nThe Vice-Principal looked pleased. Charles could not help being candid,\nand said in a lower tone, as if words of course, \"That is, on faith.\"\n\nThis put all wrong again. Jennings would not allow this; it was a blind,\nPopish reliance; it was very well, when he first came to the University,\nbefore he had read the Articles, to take them on trust; but a young man\nwho had had the advantages of Mr. Reding, who had been three years at\nSt. Saviour's College, and had attended the Article-lectures, ought to\nhold the received view, not only as being received, but as his own, with\na free intellectual assent. He went on to ask him by what texts he\nproved the Protestant doctrine of justification. Charles gave two or\nthree of the usual passages with such success, that the Vice-Principal\nwas secretly beginning to relent, when, unhappily, on asking a last\nquestion as a matter of course, he received an answer which confirmed\nall his former surmises.\n\n\"What is our Church's doctrine concerning the intercession of Saints?\"\n\nCharles said that he did not recollect that it had expressed any opinion\non the subject. Jennings bade him think again; Charles thought in vain.\n\n\"Well, what is your opinion of it, Mr. Reding?\"\n\nCharles, believing it to be an open point, thought he should be safe in\nimitating \"our Church's\" moderation. \"There are different opinions on\nthe subject,\" he said: \"some persons think they intercede for us,\nothers, that they do not. It is easy to go into extremes; perhaps better\nto avoid such questions altogether; better to go by Scripture; the book\nof Revelation speaks of the intercession of Saints, but does not\nexpressly say that they intercede for us,\" &c., &c.\n\nJennings sat upright in his easy-chair, with indignation mounting into\nhis forehead. At length his face became like night. \"_That_ is your\nopinion, Mr. Reding.\"\n\nCharles began to be frightened.\n\n\"Please to take up that Prayer Book and turn to the 22nd Article. Now\nbegin reading it.\"\n\n\"The Romish doctrine,\" said Charles,--\"the Romish doctrine concerning\npurgatory, pardon, worshipping and adoration as well of images as of\nrelics, and also invocation of Saints\"----\n\n\"Stop there,\" said the Vice-Principal; \"read those words again.\"\n\n\"And also invocation of Saints.\"\n\n\"Now, Mr. Reding.\"\n\nCharles was puzzled, thought he had made some blunder, could not find\nit, and was silent.\n\n\"Well, Mr. Reding?\"\n\nCharles at length said that he thought Mr. Jennings had spoken about\n_intercession_.\n\n\"So I did,\" he made answer.\n\n\"And this,\" said Charles timidly, \"speaks of _invocation_.\"\n\nJennings gave a little start in his arm-chair, and slightly coloured.\n\"Eh?\" he said; \"give me the book.\" He slowly read the Article, and then\ncast a cautious eye over the page before and after. There was no help\nfor it. He began again.\n\n\"And so, Mr. Reding, you actually mean to shelter yourself by that\nsubtle distinction between invocation and intercession; as if Papists\ndid not invoke in order to gain the Saints' intercession, and as if the\nSaints were not supposed by them to intercede in answer to invocation?\nThe terms are correlative. Intercession of Saints, instead of being an\nextreme only, as you consider, is a Romish abomination. I am ashamed of\nyou, Mr. Reding; I am pained and hurt that a young man of your promise,\nof good ability, and excellent morals, should be guilty of so gross an\nevasion of the authoritative documents of our Church, such an outrage\nupon common sense, so indecent a violation of the terms on which alone\nhe was allowed to place his name on the books of this society. I could\nnot have a clearer proof that your mind has been perverted--I fear I\nmust use a stronger term, debauched--by the sophistries and jesuistries\nwhich unhappily have found entrance among us. Good morning, Mr. Reding.\"\n\nSo it was a thing settled: Charles was to be sent home,--an endurable\nbanishment.\n\nBefore he went down he paid a visit of form to the old Principal--a\nworthy man in his generation, who before now had been a good parish\npriest, had instructed the ignorant and fed the poor; but now in the end\nof his days, falling on evil times, was permitted, for inscrutable\npurposes, to give evidence of that evil puritanical leaven which was a\nsecret element of his religion. He had been kind to Charles hitherto,\nwhich made his altered manner more distressing to him.\n\n\"We had hoped,\" he said, \"Mr. Reding, that so good a young man as you\nonce were would have gained a place on some foundation, and been settled\nhere, and been a useful man in his generation, sir; and a column, a\nbuttress of the Church of England, sir. Well, sir, here are my best\nwishes for you, sir. When you come up for your Master's degree, sir--no,\nI think it is your Bachelor's--which is it, Mr. Reding, are you yet a\nBachelor? oh, I see your gown.\"\n\nCharles said he had not yet been into the schools.\n\n\"Well, sir, when you come up to be examined, I should say--to be\nexamined--we will hope that in the interval, reflection, and study, and\nabsence perhaps from dangerous companions, will have brought you to a\nsoberer state of mind, Mr. Reding.\"\n\nCharles was shocked at the language used about him. \"Really, sir,\" he\nsaid, \"if you knew me better, you would feel that I am likely neither to\nreceive nor do harm by remaining here between this and Easter.\"\n\n\"What! remain here, sir, with all the young men about?\" asked Dr.\nBluett, with astonishment, \"with all the young men about you, sir?\"\n\nCharles really had not a word to say; he did not know himself in so\nnovel a position. \"I cannot conceive, sir,\" he said, at last, \"why I\nshould be unfit company for the gentlemen of the College.\"\n\nDr. Bluett's jaw dropped, and his eyes assumed a hollow aspect. \"You\nwill corrupt their minds, sir,\" he said,--\"you will corrupt their\nminds.\" Then he added, in a sepulchral tone, which came from the very\ndepths of his inside: \"You will introduce them, sir, to some subtle\nJesuit--to some subtle Jesuit, Mr. Reding.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nMrs. Reding was by this time settled in the neighbourhood of old friends\nin Devonshire; and there Charles spent the winter and early spring with\nher and his three sisters, the eldest of whom was two years older than\nhimself.\n\n\"Come, shut your dull books, Charles,\" said Caroline, the youngest, a\ngirl of fourteen; \"make way for the tea; I am sure you have read enough.\nYou sometimes don't speak a word for an hour together; at least, you\nmight tell us what you are reading about.\"\n\n\"My dear Carry, you would not be much the wiser if I did,\" answered\nCharles; \"it is Greek history.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Caroline, \"I know more than you think; I have read Goldsmith,\nand good part of Rollin, besides Pope's Homer.\"\n\n\"Capital!\" said Charles; \"well, I am reading about Pelopidas--who was\nhe?\"\n\n\"Pelopidas!\" answered Caroline, \"I ought to know. Oh, I recollect, he\nhad an ivory shoulder.\"\n\n\"Well said, Carry; but I have not yet a distinct idea of him either. Was\nhe a statue, or flesh and blood, with this shoulder of his?\"\n\n\"Oh, he was alive; somebody ate him, I think.\"\n\n\"Well, was he a god or a man?\" said Charles.\n\n\"Oh, it's a mistake of mine,\" said Caroline; \"he was a goddess, the\nivory-footed--no, that was Thetis.\"\n\n\"My dear Caroline,\" said her mother, \"do not talk so at random; think\nbefore you speak; you know better than this.\"\n\n\"She has, ma'am,\" said Charles, \"what Mr. Jennings would call 'a very\ninaccurate mind.'\"\n\n\"I recollect perfectly now,\" said Caroline, \"he was a friend of\nEpaminondas.\"\n\n\"When did he live?\" asked Charles. Caroline was silent.\n\n\"Oh, Carry,\" said Eliza, \"don't you recollect the _memoria technica_?\"\n\n\"I never could learn it,\" said Caroline; \"I hate it.\"\n\n\"Nor can I,\" said Mary; \"give me good native numbers; they are sweet and\nkindly, like flowers in a bed; but I don't like your artificial\nflower-pots.\"\n\n\"But surely,\" said Charles, \"a _memoria technica_ makes you recollect a\ngreat many dates which you otherwise could not?\"\n\n\"The crabbed names are more difficult even to pronounce than the numbers\nto learn,\" said Caroline.\n\n\"That's because you have very few dates to get up,\" said Charles; \"but\ncommon writing is a _memoria technica_.\"\n\n\"That's beyond Caroline,\" said Mary.\n\n\"What are words but artificial signs for ideas?\" said Charles; \"they are\nmore musical, but as arbitrary. There is no more reason why the sound\n'hat' should mean the particular thing so called, which we put on our\nheads, than why 'abul-distof' should stand for 1520.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear child,\" said Mrs. Reding, \"how you run on! Don't be\nparadoxical.\"\n\n\"My dear mother,\" said Charles, coming round to the fire, \"I don't want\nto be paradoxical; it's only a generalization.\"\n\n\"Keep it, then, for the schools, my dear; I dare say it will do you good\nthere,\" continued Mrs. Reding, while she continued her hemming; \"poor\nCaroline will be as much put to it in logic as in history.\"\n\n\"I am in a dilemma,\" said Charles, as he seated himself on a little\nstool at his mother's feet; \"for Carry calls me stupid if I am silent,\nand you call me paradoxical if I speak.\"\n\n\"Good sense,\" said his mother, \"is the golden mean.\"\n\n\"And what is common sense?\" said Charles.\n\n\"The silver mean,\" said Eliza.\n\n\"Well done,\" said Charles; \"it is small change for every hour.\"\n\n\"Rather,\" said Caroline, \"it is the copper mean, for we want it, like\nalms for the poor, to give away. People are always asking _me_ for it.\nIf I can't tell who Isaac's father was, Mary says, 'O Carry, where's\nyour common sense?' If I am going out of doors, Eliza runs up, 'Carry,'\nshe cries, 'you haven't common sense; your shawl's all pinned awry.' And\nwhen I ask mamma the shortest way across the fields to Dalton, she says,\n'Use your common sense, my dear.'\"\n\n\"No wonder you have so little of it, poor dear child,\" said Charles; \"no\nbank could stand such a run.\"\n\n\"No such thing,\" said Mary; \"it flows into her bank ten times as fast as\nit comes out. She has plenty of it from us; and what she does with it no\none can make out; she either hoards or she speculates.\"\n\n\"'Like the great ocean,'\" said Charles, \"'which receives the rivers, yet\nis not full.'\"\n\n\"That's somewhere in Scripture,\" said Eliza.\n\n\"In the 'Preacher,'\" said Charles, and he continued the quotation; \"'All\nthings are full of labour, man cannot utter it; the eye is not satisfied\nwith seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.'\"\n\nHis mother sighed; \"Take my cup, my love,\" she said; \"no more.\"\n\n\"I know why Charles is so fond of the 'Preacher,'\" said Mary; \"it's\nbecause he's tired of reading; 'much study is a weariness to the flesh.'\nI wish we could help you, dear Charles.\"\n\n\"My dear boy, I really think you read too much,\" said his mother; \"only\nthink how many hours you have been at it to-day. You are always up one\nor two hours before the sun; and I don't think you have had your walk\nto-day.\"\n\n\"It's so dismal walking alone, my dear mother; and as to walking with\nyou and my sisters, it's pleasant enough, but no exercise.\"\n\n\"But, Charlie,\" said Mary, \"that's absurd of you; these nice sunny days,\nwhich you could not expect at this season, are just the time for long\nwalks. Why don't you resolve to make straight for the plantations, or\nto mount Hart Hill, or go right through Dun Wood and back?\"\n\n\"Because all woods are dun and dingy just now, Mary, and not green. It's\nquite melancholy to see them.\"\n\n\"Just the finest time of the year,\" said his mother; \"it's universally\nallowed; all painters say that the autumn is the season to see a\nlandscape in.\"\n\n\"All gold and russet,\" said Mary.\n\n\"It makes me melancholy,\" said Charles.\n\n\"What! the beautiful autumn make you melancholy?\" asked his mother.\n\n\"Oh, my dear mother, you mean to say that I am paradoxical again; I\ncannot help it. I like spring; but autumn saddens me.\"\n\n\"Charles always says so,\" said Mary; \"he thinks nothing of the rich hues\ninto which the sober green changes; he likes the dull uniform of\nsummer.\"\n\n\"No, it is not that,\" said Charles; \"I never saw anything so gorgeous as\nMagdalen Water-walk, for instance, in October; it is quite wonderful,\nthe variety of colours. I admire, and am astonished; but I cannot love\nor like it. It is because I can't separate the look of things from what\nit portends; that rich variety is but the token of disease and death.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Mary, \"colours have their own intrinsic beauty; we may\nlike them for their own sake.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Charles, \"we always go by association; else why not\nadmire raw beef, or a toad, or some other reptiles, which are as\nbeautiful and bright as tulips or cherries, yet revolting, because we\nconsider what they are, not how they look?\"\n\n\"What next?\" said his mother, looking up from her work; \"my dear\nCharles, you are not serious in comparing cherries to raw beef or to\ntoads?\"\n\n\"No, my dear mother,\" answered Charles, laughing, \"no, I only say that\nthey look like them, not are like them.\"\n\n\"A toad look like a cherry, Charles!\" persisted Mrs. Reding.\n\n\"Oh, my dear mother,\" he answered, \"I can't explain; I really have said\nnothing out of the way. Mary does not think I have.\"\n\n\"But,\" said Mary, \"why not associate pleasant thoughts with autumn?\"\n\n\"It is impossible,\" said Charles; \"it is the sick season and the\ndeathbed of Nature. I cannot look with pleasure on the decay of the\nmother of all living. The many hues upon the landscape are but the spots\nof dissolution.\"\n\n\"This is a strained, unnatural view, Charles,\" said Mary; \"shake\nyourself, and you will come to a better mind. Don't you like to see a\nrich sunset? yet the sun is leaving you.\"\n\nCharles was for a moment posed; then he said, \"Yes, but there was no\nautumn in Eden; suns rose and set in Paradise, but the leaves were\nalways green, and did not wither. There was a river to feed them. Autumn\nis the 'fall.'\"\n\n\"So, my dearest Charles,\" said Mrs. Reding, \"you don't go out walking\nthese fine days because there was no autumn in the garden of Eden?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Charles, laughing, \"it is cruel to bring me so to book. What\nI meant was, that my reading was a direct obstacle to walking, and that\nthe fine weather did not tempt me to remove it.\"\n\n\"I am glad we have you here, my dear,\" said his mother, \"for we can\nforce you out now and then; at College I suspect you never walk at all.\"\n\n\"It's only for a time, ma'am,\" said Charles; \"when my examination is\nover, I will take as long walks as I did with Edward Gandy that winter\nafter I left school.\"\n\n\"Ah, how merry you were then, Charles!\" said Mary; \"so happy with the\nthoughts of Oxford before you!\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear,\" said Mrs. Reding, \"you'll then walk too much, as you now\nwalk too little. My good boy, you are so earnest about everything.\"\n\n\"It's a shame to find fault with him for being diligent,\" said Mary:\n\"you like him to read for honours, I know, mamma; but if he is to get\nthem he must read a great deal.\"\n\n\"True, my love,\" answered Mrs. Reding; \"Charles is a dear good fellow, I\nknow. How glad we all shall be to have him ordained, and settled in a\ncuracy!\"\n\nCharles sighed. \"Come, Mary,\" he said, \"give us some music, now the urn\nhas gone away. Play me that beautiful air of Beethoven, the one I call\n'The Voice of the Dead.'\"\n\n\"Oh, Charles, you do give such melancholy names to things!\" cried Mary.\n\n\"The other day,\" said Eliza, \"we had a most beautiful scent wafted\nacross the road as we were walking, and he called it 'the Ghost of the\nPast;' and he says that the sound of the Eolian harp is 'remorseful.'\"\n\n\"Now, you'd think all that very pretty,\" said Charles, \"if you saw it in\na book of poems; but you call it melancholy when I say it.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" said Caroline, \"because poets never mean what they say, and\nwould not be poetical unless they were melancholy.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Mary, \"I play to you, Charles, on this one condition, that\nyou let me give you some morning a serious lecture on that melancholy of\nyours, which, I assure you is growing on you.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII.\n\n\nCharles's perplexities rapidly took a definite form on his coming into\nDevonshire. The very fact of his being at home, and not at Oxford where\nhe ought to have been, brought them before his mind; and the near\nprospect of his examination and degree justified the consideration of\nthem. No addition indeed was made to their substance, as already\ndescribed; but they were no longer vague and indistinct, but thoroughly\napprehended by him; nor did he make up his mind that they were\ninsurmountable, but he saw clearly what it was that had to be\nsurmounted. The particular form of argument into which they happened to\nfall was determined by the circumstances in which he found himself at\nthe time, and was this, viz. how he could subscribe the Articles _ex\nanimo_, without faith, more or less, in his Church as the imponent; and\nnext, how he could have faith in her, her history and present condition\nbeing what they were. The fact of these difficulties was a great source\nof distress to him. It was aggravated by the circumstance that he had no\none to talk to, or to sympathize with him under them. And it was\ncompleted by the necessity of carrying about with him a secret which he\ndared not tell to others, yet which he foreboded must be told one day.\nAll this was the secret of that depression of spirits which his sisters\nhad observed in him.\n\nHe was one day sitting thoughtfully over the fire with a book in his\nhand, when Mary entered. \"I wish you would teach _me_ the art of reading\nGreek in live coals,\" she said.\n\n\"Sermons in stones, and good in everything,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"You do well to liken yourself to the melancholy Jaques,\" she replied.\n\n\"Not so,\" said he, \"but to the good Duke Charles, who was banished to\nthe green forest.\"\n\n\"A great grievance,\" answered Mary, \"we being the wild things with whom\nyou are forced to live. My dear Charles,\" she continued, \"I hope the\ntittle-tattle that drove you here does not still dwell on your mind.\"\n\n\"Why, it is not very pleasant, Mary, after having been on the best terms\nwith the whole College, and in particular with the Principal and\nJennings, at last to be sent down, as a rowing-man might be rusticated\nfor tandem-driving. You have no notion how strong the old Principal was,\nand Jennings too.\"\n\n\"Well, my dearest Charles, you must not brood over it,\" said Mary, \"as I\nfear you are doing.\"\n\n\"I don't see where it is to end,\" said Charles; \"the Principal expressly\nsaid that my prospects at the University were knocked up. I suppose they\nwould not give me a testimonial, if I wished to stand for a fellowship\nanywhere.\"\n\n\"Oh, it is a temporary mistake,\" said Mary; \"I dare say by this time\nthey know better. And it's one great gain to have you with us; we, at\nleast, ought to be obliged to them.\"\n\n\"I have been so very careful, Mary,\" said Charles; \"I have never been to\nthe evening-parties, or to the sermons which are talked about in the\nUniversity. It's quite amazing to me what can have put it into their\nheads. At the Article-lecture I now and then asked a question, but it\nwas really because I wished to understand and get up the different\nsubjects. Jennings fell on me the moment I entered his room. I can call\nit nothing else; very civil at first in his manner, but there was\nsomething in his eye before he spoke which told me at once what was\ncoming. It's odd a man of such self-command as he should not better hide\nhis feelings; but I have always been able to see what Jennings was\nthinking about.\"\n\n\"Depend on it,\" said his sister, \"you will think nothing of it whatever\nthis time next year. It will be like a summer-cloud, come and gone.\"\n\n\"And then it damps me, and interrupts me in my reading. I fall back\nthinking of it, and cannot give my mind to my books, or exert myself. It\nis very hard.\"\n\nMary sighed; \"I wish I could help you,\" she said; \"but women can do so\nlittle. Come, let me take the fretting, and you the reading; that'll be\na fair division.\"\n\n\"And then my dear mother too,\" he continued; \"what will she think of it\nwhen it comes to her ears? and come it must.\"\n\n\"Nonsense,\" said Mary, \"don't make a mountain of a mole-hill. You will\ngo back, take your degree, and nobody will be the wiser.\"\n\n\"No, it can't be so,\" said Charles seriously.\n\n\"What do you mean?\" asked Mary.\n\n\"These things don't clear off in that way,\" said he; \"it is no\nsummer-cloud; it may turn to rain, for what they know.\"\n\nMary looked at him with some surprise.\n\n\"I mean,\" he said, \"that I have no confidence that they will let me take\nmy degree, any more than let me reside there.\"\n\n\"That is very absurd,\" said she; \"it's what I meant by brooding over\nthings, and making mountains of mole-hills.\"\n\n\"My sweet Mary,\" he said, affectionately taking her hand, \"my only real\nconfidant and comfort, I would tell you something more, if you could\nbear it.\"\n\nMary was frightened, and her heart beat. \"Charles,\" she said,\nwithdrawing her hand, \"any pain is less than to see you thus. I see too\nclearly that something is on your mind.\"\n\nCharles put his feet on the fender, and looked down.\n\n\"I _can't_ tell you,\" he said, at length, with vehemence; then, seeing\nby her face how much he was distressing her, he said, half-laughing, as\nif to turn the edge of his words, \"My dear Mary, when people bear\nwitness against one, one can't help fearing that there is, perhaps,\nsomething to bear witness against.\"\n\n\"Impossible, Charles! _you_ corrupt other people! _you_ falsify the\nPrayer Book and Articles! impossible!\"\n\n\"Mary, which do you think would be the best judge whether my face was\ndirty and my coat shabby, you or I? Well, then, perhaps Jennings, or at\nleast common report, knows more about me than I do myself.\"\n\n\"You must not speak in this way,\" said Mary, much hurt; \"you really do\npain me now. What can you mean?\"\n\nCharles covered his face with his hands, and at length said: \"It's no\ngood; you can't assist me here; I only pain you. I ought not to have\nbegun the subject.\"\n\nThere was a silence.\n\n\"My dearest Charles,\" said Mary tenderly, \"come, I will bear anything,\nand not be annoyed. Anything better than to see you go on in this way.\nBut really you frighten me.\"\n\n\"Why,\" he answered, \"when a number of people tell me that Oxford is not\nmy place, not my position, perhaps they are right; perhaps it isn't.\"\n\n\"But is that really all?\" she said; \"who wants you to lead an Oxford\nlife? not we.\"\n\n\"No, but Oxford implies taking a degree--taking orders.\"\n\n\"Now, my dear Charles, speak out; don't drop hints; let me know;\" and\nshe sat down with a look of great anxiety.\n\n\"Well,\" he said, making an effort; \"yet I don't know where to begin; but\nmany things have happened to me, in various ways, to show me that I have\nnot a place, a position, a home, that I am not made for, that I am a\nstranger in, the Church of England.\"\n\nThere was a dreadful pause; Mary turned very pale; then, darting at a\nconclusion with precipitancy, she said quickly, \"You mean to say, you\nare going to join the Church of Rome, Charles.\"\n\n\"No,\" he said, \"it is not so. I mean no such thing; I mean just what I\nsay; I have told you the whole; I have kept nothing back. It is this,\nand no more--that I feel out of place.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" she said, \"you must tell me more; for, to my apprehension,\nyou mean just what I have said, nothing short of it.\"\n\n\"I can't go through things in order,\" he said; \"but wherever I go,\nwhomever I talk with, I feel him to be another sort of person from what\nI am. I can't convey it to you; you won't understand me; but the words\nof the Psalm, 'I am a stranger upon earth,' describe what I always feel.\nNo one thinks or feels like me. I hear sermons, I talk on religious\nsubjects with friends, and every one seems to bear witness against me.\nAnd now the College bears its witness, and sends me down.\"\n\n\"Oh, Charles,\" said Mary, \"how changed you are!\" and tears came into her\neyes; \"you used to be so cheerful, so happy. You took such pleasure in\nevery one, in everything. We used to laugh and say, 'All Charlie's geese\nare swans.' What has come over you?\" She paused, and then continued:\n\"Don't you recollect those lines in the 'Christian Year'? I can't repeat\nthem; we used to apply them to you; something about hope or love 'making\nall things bright with her own magic smile.'\"\n\nCharles was touched when he was reminded of what he had been three years\nbefore; he said: \"I suppose it is coming out of shadows into\nrealities.\"\n\n\"There has been much to sadden you,\" she added, sighing; \"and now these\nnasty books are too much for you. Why should you go up for honours?\nwhat's the good of it?\"\n\nThere was a pause again.\n\n\"I wish I could bring home to you,\" said Charles, \"the number of\nintimations, as it were, which have been given me of my uncongeniality,\nas it may be called, with things as they are. What perhaps most affected\nme, was a talk I had with Carlton, whom I have lately been reading with;\nfor, if I could not agree with _him_, or rather, if _he_ bore witness\nagainst me, who could be expected to say a word for me? I cannot bear\nthe pomp and pretence which I see everywhere. I am not speaking against\nindividuals; they are very good persons, I know; but, really, if you saw\nOxford as it is! The Heads with such large incomes; they are indeed very\nliberal of their money, and their wives are often simple, self-denying\npersons, as every one says, and do a great deal of good in the place;\nbut I speak of the system. Here are ministers of Christ with large\nincomes, living in finely furnished houses, with wives and families, and\nstately butlers and servants in livery, giving dinners all in the best\nstyle, condescending and gracious, waving their hands and mincing their\nwords, as if they were the cream of the earth, but without anything to\nmake them clergymen but a black coat and a white tie. And then Bishops\nor Deans come, with women tucked under their arm; and they can't enter\nchurch but a fine powdered man runs first with a cushion for them to sit\non, and a warm sheepskin to keep their feet from the stones.\"\n\nMary laughed: \"Well, my dear Charles,\" she said, \"I did not think you\nhad seen so much of Bishops, Deans, Professors, and Heads of houses at\nSt. Saviour's; you have kept good company.\"\n\n\"I have my eyes about me,\" said Charles, \"and have had quite\nopportunities enough; I can't go into particulars.\"\n\n\"Well, you have been hard on them, I think,\" said Mary; \"when a poor old\nman has the rheumatism,\" and she sighed a little, \"it is hard he mayn't\nhave his feet kept from the cold.\"\n\n\"Ah, Mary, I can't bring it home to you! but you must, please, throw\nyourself into what I say, and not criticize my instances or my terms.\nWhat I mean is, that there is a worldly air about everything, as unlike\nas possible the spirit of the Gospel. I don't impute to the dons\nambition or avarice; but still, what Heads of houses, Fellows, and all\nof them evidently put before them as an end is, to enjoy the world in\nthe first place, and to serve God in the second. Not that they don't\nmake it their final object to get to heaven; but their immediate object\nis to be comfortable, to marry, to have a fair income, station, and\nrespectability, a convenient house, a pleasant country, a sociable\nneighbourhood. There is nothing high about them. I declare I think the\nPuseyites are the only persons who have high views in the whole place; I\nshould say, the only persons who profess them, for I don't know them to\nspeak about them.\" He thought of White.\n\n\"Well, you are talking of things I don't know about,\" said Mary; \"but I\ncan't think all the young clever men of the place are looking out for\nease and comfort; nor can I believe that in the Church of Rome money has\nalways been put to the best of purposes.\"\n\n\"I said nothing about the Church of Rome,\" said Charles; \"why do you\nbring in the Church of Rome? that's another thing altogether. What I\nmean is, that there is a worldly smell about Oxford which I can't abide.\nI am not using 'worldly' in its worse sense. People are religious and\ncharitable; but--I don't like to mention names--but I know various dons,\nand the notion of evangelical poverty, the danger of riches, the giving\nup all for Christ, all those ideas which are first principles in\nScripture, as I read it, don't seem to enter into their idea of\nreligion. I declare, I think that is the reason why the Puseyites are so\nunpopular.\"\n\n\"Well, I can't see,\" said Mary, \"why you must be disgusted with the\nworld, and with your place and duties in it, because there are worldly\npeople in it.\"\n\n\"But I was speaking of Carlton,\" said Charles; \"do you know, good fellow\nas he is--and I love, admire, and respect him exceedingly--he actually\nlaid it down almost as an axiom, that a clergyman of the English Church\nought to marry? He said that celibacy might be very well in other\ncommunions, but that a man made himself a fool, and was out of joint\nwith the age, who remained single in the Church of England.\"\n\nPoor Charles was so serious, and the proposition which he related was so\nmonstrous, that Mary, in spite of her real distress, could not help\nlaughing out. \"I really cannot help it,\" she said; \"well, it really was\na most extraordinary statement, I confess. But, my dear Charlie, you\nare not afraid that he will carry you off against your will, and marry\nyou to some fair lady before you know where you are?\"\n\n\"Don't talk in that way, Mary,\" said Charles; \"I can't bear a joke just\nnow. I mean, Carlton is so sensible a man, and takes so just a view of\nthings, that the conviction flashed on my mind, that the Church of\nEngland really was what he implied it to be--a form of religion very\nunlike that of the Apostles.\"\n\nThis sobered Mary indeed. \"Alas,\" she said, \"we have got upon very\ndifferent ground now; not what our Church thinks of you, but what you\nthink of our Church.\" There was a pause. \"I thought this was at the\nbottom,\" she said; \"I never could believe that a parcel of people, some\nof whom you cared nothing for, telling you that you were not in your\nplace, would make you think so, unless you first felt it yourself.\nThat's the real truth; and then you interpret what others say in your\nown way.\" Another uncomfortable pause. Then she continued: \"I see how it\nwill be. When you take up a thing, Charles, I know well you don't lay it\ndown. No, you have made up your mind already. We shall see you a Roman\nCatholic.\"\n\n\"Do _you_ then bear witness against me, Mary, as well as the rest?\" said\nhe sorrowfully.\n\nShe saw her mistake. \"No,\" she answered; \"all I say is, that it rests\nwith yourself, not with others. _If_ you have made up your mind, there's\nno help for it. It is not others who drive you, who bear witness against\nyou. Dear Charles, don't mistake me, and don't deceive yourself. You\nhave a strong _will_.\"\n\nAt this moment Caroline entered the room. \"I could not think where you\nwere, Mary,\" she said; \"here Perkins has been crying after you ever so\nlong. It's something about dinner; I don't know what. We have hunted\nhigh and low, and never guessed you were helping Charles at his books.\"\nMary gave a deep sigh, and left the room.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII.\n\n\nNeither to brother nor to sister had the conversation been a\nsatisfaction or relief. \"I can go nowhere for sympathy,\" thought\nCharles; \"dear Mary does not understand me more than others. I can't\nbring out what I mean and feel; and when I attempt to do so, my\nstatements and arguments seem absurd to myself. It has been a great\neffort to tell her; and in one sense it is a gain, for it is a trial\nover. Else I have taken nothing by my move, and might as well have held\nmy tongue. I have simply pained her without relieving myself.\nBy-the-bye, she has gone off believing about twice as much as the fact.\nI was going to set her right when Carry came in. My only difficulty is\nabout taking orders; and she thinks I am going to be a Roman Catholic.\nHow absurd! but women will run on so; give an inch, and they take an\nell. I know nothing of the Roman Catholics. The simple question is,\nwhether I should go to the Bar or the Church. I declare, I think I have\nmade vastly too much of it myself. I ought to have begun this way with\nher,--I ought to have said, 'D'you know, I have serious thoughts of\nreading law?' I've made a hash of it.\"\n\nPoor Mary, on the other hand, was in a confusion of thought and feeling\nas painful as it was new to her; though for a time household matters and\nnecessary duties towards her younger sisters occupied her mind in a\ndifferent direction. She had been indeed taken at her word; little had\nshe expected what would come on her when she engaged to \"take the\nfretting, while he took the reading.\" She had known what grief was, not\nso long ago; but not till now had she known anxiety. Charles's state of\nmind was a matter of simple astonishment to her. At first it quite\nfrightened and shocked her; it was as if Charles had lost his identity,\nand had turned out some one else. It was like a great breach of trust.\nShe had seen there was a good deal in the newspapers about the \"Oxford\nparty\" and their doings; and at different places, where she had been on\nvisits, she had heard of churches being done up in the new fashion, and\nclergymen being accused, in consequence, of Popery--a charge which she\nhad laughed at. But now it was actually brought home to her door that\nthere was something in it. Yet it was to her incomprehensible, and she\nhardly knew where she was. And that, of all persons in the world, her\nbrother, her own Charles, with whom she had been one heart and soul all\ntheir lives--one so cheerful, so religious, so good, so sensible, so\ncautious,--that he should be the first specimen that crossed her path of\nthe new opinions,--it bewildered her.\n\nAnd where _had_ he got his notions?--Notions! she could not call them\nnotions; he had nothing to say for himself. It was an infatuation; he,\nso clever, so sharp-sighted, could say nothing better in defence of\nhimself than that Mrs. Bishop of Monmouth was too pretty, and that old\nDr. Stock sat upon a cushion. Oh, sad, sad indeed! How was it he could\nbe so insensible to the blessings he gained from his Church, and had\nenjoyed all his life? What could he need? _She_ had no need at all:\ngoing to church was a pleasure to her. She liked to hear the Lessons and\nthe Collects, coming round year after year, and marking the seasons. The\nhistorical books and prophets in summer; then the \"stir-up\" Collect just\nbefore Advent; the beautiful Collects in Advent itself, with the Lessons\nfrom Isaiah reaching on through Epiphany; they were quite music to the\near. Then the Psalms, varying with every Sunday; they were a perpetual\nsolace to her, ever old yet ever new. The occasional additions, too--the\nAthanasian Creed, the Benedictus, Deus misereatur, and Omnia opera,\nwhich her father had been used to read at certain great feasts; and the\nbeautiful Litany. What could he want more? where could he find so much?\nWell, it was a mystery to her; and she could only feel thankful that\n_she_ was not exposed to the temptations, whatever they were, which had\nacted on the powerful mind of her brother.\n\nThen, she had anticipated how pleasant it would be when Charles was a\nclergyman, and she should hear him preach; when there would be one whom\nshe would have a right to ask questions and to consult whenever she\nwished. This prospect was at an end; she could no longer trust him: he\nhad given a shake to her confidence which it never could recover; it was\ngone for ever. They were all of them women but he; he was their only\nstay, now that her father had been taken away. What was now to become of\nthem? To be abandoned by her own brother! oh, how terrible!\n\nAnd how was she to break it to her mother? for broken it must be sooner\nor later. She could not deceive herself; she knew her brother well\nenough to feel sure that, when he had really got hold of a thing, he\nwould not let it go again without convincing reasons; and what reasons\nthere could be for letting it go she could not conceive, if there could\nbe reasons for taking it up. The taking it up baffled all reason, all\ncalculation. Well, but how was her mother to be told of it? Was it\nbetter to let her suspect it first, and so break it to her, or to wait\ntill the event happened? The problem was too difficult for the present,\nand she must leave it.\n\nThis was her state for several days, till her fever of mind gradually\nsubsided into a state of which a dull anxiety was a latent but habitual\nelement, leaving her as usual at ordinary times, but every now and then\nbetraying itself by sudden sharp sighs or wanderings of thought. Neither\nbrother nor sister, loving each other really as much as ever, had quite\nthe same sweetness and evenness of temper as was natural to them;\nself-control became a duty, and the evening circle was duller than\nbefore, without any one being able to say why. Charles was more\nattentive to his mother; he no more brought his books into the\ndrawing-room, but gave himself to her company. He read to them, but he\nhad little to talk about; and Eliza and Caroline both wished his stupid\nexamination, past and over, that he might be restored to his natural\nliveliness.\n\nAs to Mrs. Reding, she did not observe more than that her son was a very\nhard student, and grudged himself a walk or ride, let the day be ever so\nfine. She was a mild, quiet person, of keen feelings and precise habits;\nnot very quick at observation; and, having lived all her life in the\ncountry, and till her late loss having scarcely known what trouble was,\nshe was singularly unable to comprehend how things could go on in any\nway but one. Charles had not told her the real cause of his spending the\nwinter at home, thinking it would be a needless vexation to her; much\nless did he contemplate harassing her with the recital of his own\nreligious difficulties, which were not appreciable by her, and issued in\nno definite result. To his sister he did attempt an explanation of his\nformer conversation, with a view of softening the extreme misgivings\nwhich it had created in her mind. She received it thankfully, and\nprofessed to be relieved by it; but the blow was struck, the suspicion\nwas lodged deep in her mind--he was still Charles, dear to her as ever,\nbut she never could rid herself of the anticipation which on that\noccasion she had expressed.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV.\n\n\nOne morning he was told that a gentleman had asked for him, and been\nshown into the dining-room. Descending, he saw the tall slender figure\nof Bateman, now a clergyman, and lately appointed curate of a\nneighbouring parish. Charles had not seen him for a year and a half, and\nshook hands with him very warmly, complimenting him on his white\nneckcloth, which somehow, he said, altered him more than he could have\nexpected. Bateman's manner certainly was altered; it might be the\naccident of the day, but he did not seem quite at his ease; it might be\nthat he was in a strange house, and was likely soon to be precipitated\ninto the company of ladies, to which he had never been used. If so, the\ntrial was on the point of beginning, for Charles said instantly that he\nmust come and see his mother, and of course meant to dine with them; the\nsky was clear, and there was an excellent footpath between Boughton and\nMelford. Bateman could not do this, but he would have the greatest\npleasure in being introduced to Mrs. Reding; so he stumbled after\nCharles into the drawing-room, and was soon conversing with her and the\nyoung ladies.\n\n\"A charming prospect you have here, ma'am,\" said Bateman, \"when you are\nonce inside the house. It does not promise outside so extensive a view.\"\n\n\"No, it is shut in with trees,\" said Mrs. Reding; \"and the brow of the\nhill changes its direction so much that at first I used to think the\nprospect ought to be from the opposite windows.\"\n\n\"What is that high hill?\" said Bateman.\n\n\"It is Hart Hill,\" said Charles; \"there's a Roman camp atop of it.\"\n\n\"We can see eight steeples from our windows,\" said Mrs. Reding;--\"ring\nthe bell for luncheon, my dear.\"\n\n\"Ah, our ancestors, Mrs. Reding,\" said Bateman, \"thought more of\nbuilding churches than we do; or rather than we have done, I should say,\nfor now it is astonishing what efforts are made to add to our\necclesiastical structures.\"\n\n\"Our ancestors did a good deal too,\" said Mrs. Reding; \"how many\nchurches, my dear, were built in London in Queen Anne's time? St.\nMartin's was one of them.\"\n\n\"Fifty,\" said Eliza.\n\n\"Fifty were intended,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Yes, Mrs. Reding,\" said Bateman; \"but by ancestors I meant the holy\nBishops and other members of our Catholic Church previously to the\nReformation. For, though the Reformation was a great blessing\" (a glance\nat Charles), \"yet we must not, in justice, forget what was done by\nEnglish Churchmen before it.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor creatures,\" said Mrs. Reding, \"they did one good thing in\nbuilding churches; it has saved us much trouble.\"\n\n\"Is there much church-restoration going on in these parts?\" said\nBateman, taken rather aback.\n\n\"My mother has but lately come here, like yourself,\" said Charles; \"yes,\nthere is some; Barton Church, you know,\" appealing to Mary.\n\n\"Have your walks extended so far as Barton?\" said Mary to Bateman.\n\n\"Not yet, Miss Reding, not yet,\" answered he; \"of course they are\ndestroying the pews.\"\n\n\"They are to put in seats,\" said Charles, \"and of a very good pattern.\"\n\n\"Pews are intolerable,\" said Bateman; \"yet the last generation of\nincumbents contentedly bore them; it is wonderful!\"\n\nA not unnatural silence followed this speech. Charles broke it by asking\nif Bateman intended to do anything in the improvement line at Melford.\n\nBateman looked modest.\n\n\"Nothing of any consequence,\" he said; \"some few things were done; but\nhe had a rector of the old school, poor man, who was an enemy to that\nsort of thing.\"\n\nIt was with some malicious feeling, in consequence of his attack on\nclergymen of the past age, that Charles pressed his visitor to give an\naccount of his own reforms.\n\n\"Why,\" said Bateman, \"much discretion is necessary in these matters, or\nyou do as much harm as good; you get into hot water with churchwardens\nand vestries, as well as with old rectors, and again with the gentry of\nthe place, and please no one. For this reason I have made no attempt to\nintroduce the surplice into the pulpit except on the great festivals,\nintending to familiarize my parishioners to it by little and little.\nHowever, I wear a scarf or stole, and have taken care that it should be\ntwo inches broader than usual; and I always wear the cassock in my\nparish. I hope you approve of the cassock, Mrs. Reding?\"\n\n\"It is a very cold dress, sir--that's my opinion--when made of silk or\nbombazeen; and very unbecoming too, when worn by itself.\"\n\n\"Particularly behind,\" said Charles; \"it is quite unshapely.\"\n\n\"Oh, I have remedied that,\" said Bateman; \"you have noticed, Miss\nReding, I dare say, the Bishop's short cassock. It comes to the knees,\nand looks much like a continuation of a waistcoat, the straight-cut coat\nbeing worn as usual. Well, Miss Reding, I have adopted the same plan\nwith the long cassock; I put my coat over it.\"\n\nMary had difficulty to keep from smiling; Charles laughed out.\n\"Impossible, Bateman,\" he said; \"you don't mean you wear your tailed\nFrench coat over your long straight cassock reaching to your ankles?\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Bateman gravely; \"I thus consult for warmth and\nappearance too; and all my parishioners are sure to know me. I think\nthis a great point, Miss Reding: I hear the little boys as I pass say,\n'That's the parson.'\"\n\n\"I'll be bound they do,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Well,\" said Mrs. Reding, surprised out of her propriety, \"did one ever\nhear the like!\"\n\nBateman looked round at her, startled and frightened.\n\n\"You were going to speak of your improvements in your church,\" said\nMary, wishing to divert his attention from her mother.\n\n\"Ah, true, Miss Reding, true,\" said Bateman, \"thank you for reminding\nme; I have digressed to improvements in my own dress. I should have\nliked to have pulled down the galleries and lowered the high pews; that,\nhowever, I could not do. So I have lowered the pulpit some six feet. Now\nby doing so, first I give a pattern in my own person of the kind of\ncondescension or lowliness to which I would persuade my people. But this\nis not all; for the consequence of lowering the pulpit is, that no one\nin the galleries can see or hear me preach; and this is a bonus on those\nwho are below.\"\n\n\"It's a broad hint, certainly,\" said Charles.\n\n\"But it's a hint for those below also,\" continued Bateman; \"for no one\ncan see or hear me in the pews either, till the sides are lowered.\"\n\n\"One thing only is wanting besides,\" said Charles, smiling and looking\namiable, lest he should be saying too much; \"since you are full tall,\nyou must kneel when you preach, Bateman, else you will undo your own\nalterations.\"\n\nBateman looked pleased. \"I have anticipated you,\" he said; \"I preach\nsitting. It is more comformable to antiquity and to reason to sit than\nto stand.\"\n\n\"With these precautions,\" said Charles, \"I really think you might have\nventured on your surplice in the pulpit every Sunday. Are your\nparishioners contented?\"\n\n\"Oh, not at all, far from it,\" cried Bateman; \"but they can do nothing.\nThe alteration is so simple.\"\n\n\"Nothing besides?\" asked Charles.\n\n\"Nothing in the architectural way,\" answered he; \"but one thing more in\nthe way of observances. I have fortunately picked up a very fair copy of\nJewell, black-letter; and I have placed it in church, securing it with a\nchain to the wall, for any poor person who wishes to read it. Our church\nis emphatically the 'poor man's church,' Mrs. Reding.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles to himself, \"I'll back the old parsons against the\nyoung ones any day, if this is to be their cut.\" Then aloud: \"Come, you\nmust see our garden; take up your hat, and let's have a turn in it.\nThere's a very nice terrace-walk at the upper end.\"\n\nBateman accordingly, having been thus trotted out for the amusement of\nthe ladies, was now led off again, and was soon in the aforesaid\nterrace-walk, pacing up and down in earnest conversation with Charles.\n\n\"Reding, my good fellow,\" said he, \"what is the meaning of this report\nconcerning you, which is everywhere about?\"\n\n\"I have not heard it,\" said Charles abruptly.\n\n\"Why, it is this,\" said Bateman; \"I wish to approach the subject with as\ngreat delicacy as possible: don't tell me if you don't like it, or tell\nme just as much as you like; yet you will excuse an old friend. They\nsay you are going to leave the Church of your baptism for the Church of\nRome.\"\n\n\"Is it widely spread?\" asked Charles coolly.\n\n\"Oh, yes; I heard it in London; have had a letter mentioning it from\nOxford; and a friend of mine heard it given out as positive at a\nvisitation dinner in Wales.\"\n\n\"So,\" thought Charles, \"you are bringing _your_ witness against me as\nwell as the rest.\"\n\n\"Well but, my good Reding,\" said Bateman, \"why are you silent? is it\ntrue--is it true?\"\n\n\"What true? that I am a Roman Catholic? Oh, certainly; don't you\nunderstand, that's why I am reading so hard for the schools?\" said\nCharles.\n\n\"Come, be serious for a moment, Reding,\" said Bateman, \"do be serious.\nWill you empower me to contradict the report, or to negative it to a\ncertain point, or in any respect?\"\n\n\"Oh, to be sure,\" said Charles, \"contradict it, by all means, contradict\nit entirely.\"\n\n\"May I give it a plain, unqualified, unconditional, categorical, flat\ndenial?\" asked Bateman.\n\n\"Of course, of course.\"\n\nBateman could not make him out, and had not a dream how he was teasing\nhim. \"I don't know where to find you,\" he said. They paced down the walk\nin silence.\n\nBateman began again. \"You see,\" he said, \"it would be such a wonderful\nblindness, it would be so utterly inexcusable in a person like yourself,\nwho had known _what_ the Church of England was; not a Dissenter, not an\nunlettered layman; but one who had been at Oxford, who had come across\nso many excellent men, who had seen what the Church of England could be,\nher grave beauty, her orderly and decent activity; who had seen churches\ndecorated as they should be, with candlesticks, ciboriums, faldstools,\nlecterns, antependiums, piscinas, rood-lofts, and sedilia; who, in fact,\nhad seen the Church Service _carried out_, and could desiderate\nnothing;--tell me, my dear good Reding,\" taking hold of his button-hole,\n\"what is it you want--what is it? name it.\"\n\n\"That you would take yourself off,\" Charles would have said, had he\nspoken his mind; he merely said, however, that really he desiderated\nnothing but to be believed when he said that he had no intention of\nleaving his own Church. Bateman was incredulous, and thought him close.\n\"Perhaps you are not aware,\" he said, \"how much is known of the\ncircumstances of your being sent down. The old Principal was full of the\nsubject.\"\n\n\"What! I suppose he told people right and left,\" said Reding.\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" answered Bateman; \"a friend of mine knows him, and happening\nto call on him soon after you went down, had the whole story from him.\nHe spoke most kindly of you, and in the highest terms; said that it was\ndeplorable how much your mind was warped by the prevalent opinions, and\nthat he should not be surprised if it turned out you were a Romanist\neven while you were at St. Saviour's; anyhow, that you would be one day\na Romanist for certain, for that you held that the saints reigning with\nChrist interceded for us in heaven. But what was stronger, when the\nreport got about, Sheffield said that he was not surprised at it, that\nhe always prophesied it.\"\n\n\"I am much obliged to him,\" said Charles.\n\n\"However, you warrant me,\" said Bateman, \"to contradict it--so I\nunderstand you--to contradict it peremptorily; that's enough for me.\nIt's a great relief; it's very satisfactory. Well, I must be going.\"\n\n\"I don't like to seem to drive you away,\" said Charles, \"but really you\nmust be going if you want to get home before nightfall. I hope you don't\nfeel lonely or overworked where you are. If you are so at any time,\ndon't scruple to drop in to dinner here; nay, we can take you in for a\nnight, if you wish it.\"\n\nBateman thanked him, and they proceeded to the hall-door together; when\nthey were nearly parting, Bateman stopped and said, \"Do you know, I\nshould like to lend you some books to read. Let me send up to you\nBramhall's Works, Thorndike, Barrow on the Unity of the Church, and\nLeslie's Dialogues on Romanism. I could name others, but content myself\nwith these at present. They perfectly settle the matter; you can't help\nbeing convinced. I'll not say a word more; good-bye to you, good-bye.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV.\n\n\nMuch as Charles loved and prized the company of his mother and sisters\nhe was not sorry to have gentlemen's society, so he accepted with\npleasure an invitation which Bateman sent him to dine with him at\nMelford. Also he wished to show Bateman, what no protestation could\neffect, how absurdly exaggerated were the reports which were circulated\nabout him. And as the said Bateman, with all his want of common sense,\nwas really a well-informed man, and well read in English divines, he\nthought he might incidentally hear something from him which he could\nturn to account. When he got to Melford he found a Mr. Campbell had been\nasked to meet him; a young Cambridge rector of a neighbouring parish, of\nthe same religious sentiments on the whole as Bateman, and, though a\nlittle positive, a man of clear head and vigorous mind.\n\nThey had been going over the church; and the conversation at dinner\nturned on the revival of Gothic architecture--an event which gave\nunmixed satisfaction to all parties. The subject would have died out,\nalmost as soon as it was started, for want of a difference upon it, had\nnot Bateman happily gone on boldly to declare that, if he had his will,\nthere should be no architecture in the English churches but Gothic, and\nno music but Gregorian. This was a good thesis, distinctly put, and gave\nscope for a very pretty quarrel. Reding said that all these adjuncts of\nworship, whether music or architecture, were national; they were the\nmode in which religious feeling showed itself in particular times and\nplaces. He did not mean to say that the outward expression of religion\nin a country might not be guided, but it could not be forced; that it\nwas as preposterous to make people worship in one's own way, as be merry\nin one's own way. \"The Greeks,\" he said, \"cut the hair in grief, the\nRomans let it grow; the Orientals veiled their heads in worship, the\nGreeks uncovered them; Christians take off their hats in a church,\nMahometans their shoes; a long veil is a sign of modesty in Europe, of\nimmodesty in Asia. You may as well try to change the size of people, as\ntheir forms of worship. Bateman, we must cut you down a foot, and then\nyou shall begin your ecclesiastical reforms.\"\n\n\"But surely, my worthy friend,\" answered Bateman, \"you don't mean to say\nthat there is no natural connexion between internal feeling and outward\nexpression, so that one form is no better than another?\"\n\n\"Far from it,\" answered Charles; \"but let those who confine their music\nto Gregorians put up crucifixes in the highways. Each is the\nrepresentative of a particular place or time.\"\n\n\"That's what I say of our good friend's short coat and long cassock,\"\nsaid Campbell; \"it is a confusion of different times, ancient and\nmodern.\"\n\n\"Or of different ideas,\" said Charles, \"the cassock Catholic, the coat\nProtestant.\"\n\n\"The reverse,\" said Bateman; \"the cassock is old Hooker's Anglican\nhabit: the coat comes from Catholic France.\"\n\n\"Anyhow, it is what Mr. Reding calls a mixture of ideas,\" said Campbell;\n\"and that's the difficulty I find in uniting Gothic and Gregorians.\"\n\n\"Oh, pardon me,\" said Bateman, \"they are one idea; they are both\neminently Catholic.\"\n\n\"You can't be more Catholic than Rome, I suppose,\" said Campbell; \"yet\nthere's no Gothic there.\"\n\n\"Rome is a peculiar place,\" said Bateman; \"besides, my dear friend, if\nwe do but consider that Rome has corrupted the pure apostolic doctrine,\ncan we wonder that it should have a corrupt architecture?\"\n\n\"Why, then, go to Rome for Gregorians?\" said Campbell; \"I suspect they\nare called after Gregory I. Bishop of Rome, whom Protestants consider\nthe first specimen of Antichrist.\"\n\n\"It's nothing to us what Protestants think,\" answered Bateman.\n\n\"Don't let us quarrel about terms,\" said Campbell; \"both you and I think\nthat Rome has corrupted the faith, whether she is Antichrist or not. You\nsaid so yourself just now.\"\n\n\"It is true, I did,\" said Bateman; \"but I make a little distinction. The\nChurch of Rome has not _corrupted_ the faith, but has _admitted_\ncorruptions among her people.\"\n\n\"It won't do,\" answered Campbell; \"depend on it, we can't stand our\nground in controversy unless we in our hearts think very severely of the\nChurch of Rome.\"\n\n\"Why, what's Rome to us?\" asked Bateman; \"we come from the old British\nChurch; we don't meddle with Rome, and we wish Rome not to meddle with\nus, but she will.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Campbell, \"you but read a bit of the history of the\nReformation, and you will find that the doctrine that the Pope is\nAntichrist was the life of the movement.\"\n\n\"With Ultra-Protestants, not with us,\" answered Bateman.\n\n\"Such Ultra-Protestants as the writers of the Homilies,\" said Campbell;\n\"but, I say again, I am not contending for names; I only mean, that as\nthat doctrine was the life of the Reformation, so a belief, which I have\nand you too, that there is something bad, corrupt, perilous in the\nChurch of Rome--that there is a spirit of Antichrist living in her,\nenergizing in her, and ruling her--is necessary to a man's being a good\nAnglican. You must believe this, or you ought to go to Rome.\"\n\n\"Impossible! my dear friend,\" said Bateman; \"all our doctrine has been\nthat Rome and we are sister Churches.\"\n\n\"I say,\" said Campbell, \"that without this strong repulsion you will not\nwithstand the great claims, the overcoming attractions, of the Church of\nRome. She is our mother--oh, that word 'mother!'--a mighty mother! She\nopens her arms--oh, the fragrance of that bosom! She is full of\ngifts--I feel it, I have long felt it. Why don't I rush into her arms?\nBecause I feel that she is ruled by a spirit which is not she. But did\nthat distrust of her go from me, was that certainty which I have of her\ncorruption disproved, I should join her communion to-morrow.\"\n\n\"This is not very edifying doctrine for Reding,\" thought Bateman. \"Oh,\nmy good Campbell,\" he said, \"you are paradoxical to-day.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" answered Campbell; \"our Reformers felt that the only\nway in which they could break the tie of allegiance which bound us to\nRome was the doctrine of her serious corruption. And so it is with our\ndivines. If there is one doctrine in which they agree, it is that Rome\nis Antichrist, or an Antichrist. Depend upon it, that doctrine is\nnecessary for our position.\"\n\n\"I don't quite understand that language,\" said Reding; \"I see it is used\nin various publications. It implies that controversy is a game, and that\ndisputants are not looking out for truth, but for arguments.\"\n\n\"You must not mistake me, Mr. Reding,\" answered Campbell; \"all I mean\nis, that you have no leave to trifle with your conviction that Rome is\nantichristian, if you think so. For if it _is_ so, it is necessary to\n_say_ so. A poet says, 'Speak _gently_ of our sister's _fall_:' no, if\nit is a fall, we must not speak gently of it. At first one says, 'So\ngreat a Church! who am I, to speak against her?' Yes, you must, if your\nview of her is true: 'Tell truth and shame the Devil.' Recollect you\ndon't use your own words; you are sanctioned, protected by all our\ndivines. You must, else you can give no sufficient reason for not\njoining the Church of Rome. You must speak out, not what you _don't_\nthink, but what you _do_ think, _if_ you do think it.\"\n\n\"Here's a doctrine!\" thought Charles; \"why it's putting the controversy\ninto a nutshell.\"\n\nBateman interposed. \"My dear Campbell,\" he said, \"you are behind the\nday. We have given up all that abuse against Rome.\"\n\n\"Then the party is not so clever as I give them credit for being,\"\nanswered Campbell; \"be sure of this,--those who have given up their\nprotests against Rome, either are looking towards her, or have no eyes\nto see.\"\n\n\"All we say,\" answered Bateman, \"is, as I said before, that _we_ don't\nwish to interfere with Rome; _we_ don't anathematize Rome--Rome\nanathematizes _us_.\"\n\n\"It won't do,\" said Campbell; \"those who resolve to remain in our\nChurch, and are using sweet words of Romanism, will be forced back upon\ntheir proper ground in spite of themselves, and will get no thanks for\ntheir pains. No man can serve two masters; either go to Rome, or condemn\nRome. For me, the Romish Church has a great deal in it which I can't get\nover; and thinking so, much as I admire it in parts, I can't help\nspeaking, I can't help it. It would not be honest, and it would not be\nconsistent.\"\n\n\"Well, he has ended better than he began,\" thought Bateman; and he\nchimed in, \"Oh yes, true, too true; it's painful to see it, but there's\na great deal in the Church of Rome which no man of plain sense, no\nreader of the Fathers, no Scripture student, no true member of the\nAnglo-Catholic Church can possibly stomach.\" This put a corona on the\ndiscussion; and the rest of the dinner passed off pleasantly indeed, but\nnot very intellectually.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI.\n\n\nAfter dinner it occurred to them that the subject of Gregorians and\nGothic had been left in the lurch. \"How in the world did we get off it?\"\nasked Charles.\n\n\"Well, at least, we have found it,\" said Bateman; \"and I really should\nlike to hear what you have to say upon it, Campbell.\"\n\n\"Oh, really, Bateman,\" answered he, \"I am quite sick of the subject;\nevery one seems to me to be going into extremes: what's the good of\narguing about it? you won't agree with me.\"\n\n\"I don't see that at all,\" answered Bateman; \"people often think they\ndiffer, merely because they have not courage to talk to each other.\"\n\n\"A good remark,\" thought Charles; \"what a pity that Bateman, with so\nmuch sense, should have so little common sense!\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Campbell, \"my quarrel with Gothic and Gregorians,\nwhen coupled together, is, that they are two ideas, not one. Have\nfigured music in Gothic churches, keep your Gregorian for basilicas.\"\n\n\"My good Campbell,\" said Bateman, \"you seem oblivious that Gregorian\nchants and hymns have always accompanied Gothic aisles, Gothic copes,\nGothic mitres, and Gothic chalices.\"\n\n\"Our ancestors did what they could,\" answered Campbell; \"they were great\nin architecture, small in music. They could not use what was not yet\ninvented. They sang Gregorians because they had not Palestrina.\"\n\n\"A paradox, a paradox!\" cried Bateman.\n\n\"Surely there is a close connexion,\" answered Campbell, \"between the\nrise and nature of the basilica and of Gregorian unison. Both existed\nbefore Christianity; both are of Pagan origin; both were afterwards\nconsecrated to the service of the Church.\"\n\n\"Pardon me,\" interrupted Bateman, \"Gregorians were Jewish, not Pagan.\"\n\n\"Be it so, for argument sake,\" said Campbell; \"still, at least, they\nwere not of Christian origin. Next, both the old music and the old\narchitecture were inartificial and limited, as methods of exhibiting\ntheir respective arts. You can't have a large Grecian temple, you can't\nhave a long Gregorian _Gloria_.\"\n\n\"Not a long one!\" said Bateman; \"why there's poor Willis used to\ncomplain how tedious the old Gregorian compositions were abroad.\"\n\n\"I don't explain myself,\" answered Campbell; \"of course you may produce\nthem to any length, but merely by addition, not by carrying on the\nmelody. You can put two together, and then have one twice as long as\neither. But I speak of a musical piece, which must of course be the\nnatural development of certain ideas, with one part depending on\nanother. In like manner, you might make an Ionic temple twice as long or\ntwice as wide as the Parthenon; but you would lose the beauty of\nproportion by doing so. This, then, is what I meant to say of the\nprimitive architecture and the primitive music, that they soon come to\ntheir limit; they soon are exhausted, and can do nothing more. If you\nattempt more, it's like taxing a musical instrument beyond its powers.\"\n\n\"You but try, Bateman,\" said Reding, \"to make a bass play quadrilles,\nand you will see what is meant by taxing an instrument.\"\n\n\"Well, I have heard Lindley play all sorts of quick tunes on his bass,\"\nsaid Bateman, \"and most wonderful it is.\"\n\n\"Wonderful is the right word,\" answered Reding; \"it is very wonderful.\nYou say, 'How _can_ he manage it?' and 'It's very wonderful for a bass;'\nbut it is not pleasant in itself. In like manner, I have always felt a\ndisgust when Mr. So-and-so comes forward to make his sweet flute bleat\nand bray like a hautbois; it's forcing the poor thing to do what it was\nnever made for.\"\n\n\"This is literally true as regards Gregorian music,\" said Campbell;\n\"instruments did not exist in primitive times which could execute any\nother. But I am speaking under correction; Mr. Reding seems to know more\nabout the subject than I do.\"\n\n\"I have always understood, as you say,\" answered Charles, \"modern music\ndid not come into existence till after the powers of the violin became\nknown. Corelli himself, who wrote not two hundred years ago, hardly\nventures on the shift. The piano, again, I have heard, has almost given\nbirth to Beethoven.\"\n\n\"Modern music, then, could not be in ancient times, for want of modern\ninstruments,\" said Campbell; \"and, in like manner, Gothic architecture\ncould not exist until vaulting was brought to perfection. Great\nmechanical inventions have taken place, both in architecture and in\nmusic, since the age of basilicas and Gregorians; and each science has\ngained by it.\"\n\n\"It is curious enough,\" said Reding, \"one thing I have been accustomed\nto say, quite falls in with this view of yours. When people who are not\nmusicians have accused Handel and Beethoven of not being _simple_, I\nhave always said, 'Is Gothic architecture _simple_?' A cathedral\nexpresses one idea, but it is indefinitely varied and elaborated in its\nparts; so is a symphony or quartett of Beethoven.\"\n\n\"Certainly, Bateman, you must tolerate Pagan architecture, or you must\nin consistency exclude Pagan or Jewish Gregorians,\" said Campbell; \"you\nmust tolerate figured music, or reprobate tracery windows.\"\n\n\"And which are you for,\" asked Bateman, \"Gothic with Handel, or Roman\nwith Gregorians?\"\n\n\"For both in their place,\" answered Campbell. \"I exceedingly prefer\nGothic architecture to classical. I think it the one true child and\ndevelopment of Christianity; but I won't, for that reason, discard the\nPagan style which has been sanctified by eighteen centuries, by the\nexclusive love of many Christian countries, and by the sanction of a\nhost of saints. I am for toleration. Give Gothic an ascendancy; be\nrespectful towards classical.\"\n\nThe conversation slackened. \"Much as I like modern music,\" said\nCharles, \"I can't quite go the length to which your doctrine would lead\nme. I cannot, indeed, help liking Mozart; but surely his music is not\nreligious.\"\n\n\"I have not been speaking in defence of particular composers,\" said\nCampbell; \"figured music may be right, yet Mozart or Beethoven\ninadmissible. In like manner, you don't suppose, because I tolerate\nRoman architecture, that therefore I like naked cupids to stand for\ncherubs, and sprawling women for the cardinal virtues.\" He paused.\n\"Besides,\" he added, \"as you were saying yourself just now, we must\nconsult the genius of our country and the religious associations of our\npeople.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Bateman, \"I think the perfection of sacred music is\nGregorian set to harmonies; there you have the glorious old chants, and\njust a little modern richness.\"\n\n\"And I think it just the worst of all,\" answered Campbell; \"it is a\nmixture of two things, each good in itself, and incongruous together.\nIt's a mixture of the first and second courses at table. It's like the\narchitecture of the facade at Milan, half Gothic, half Grecian.\"\n\n\"It's what is always used, I believe,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Oh yes, we must not go against the age,\" said Campbell; \"it would be\nabsurd to do so. I only spoke of what was right and wrong on abstract\nprinciples; and, to tell the truth, I can't help liking the mixture\nmyself, though I can't defend it.\"\n\nBateman rang for tea; his friends wished to return home soon; it was\nthe month of January, and no season for after-dinner strolls. \"Well,\" he\nsaid, \"Campbell, you are more lenient to the age than to me; you yield\nto the age when it sets a figured bass to a Gregorian tone; but you\nlaugh at me for setting a coat upon a cassock.\"\n\n\"It's no honour to be the author of a mongrel type,\" said Campbell.\n\n\"A mongrel type?\" said Bateman; \"rather it is a transition state.\"\n\n\"What are you passing to?\" asked Charles.\n\n\"Talking of transitions,\" said Campbell abruptly, \"do you know that your\nman Willis--I don't know his college, he turned Romanist--is living in\nmy parish, and I have hopes he is making a transition back again.\"\n\n\"Have you seen him?\" said Charles.\n\n\"No; I have called, but was unfortunate; he was out. He still goes to\nmass, I find.\"\n\n\"Why, where does he find a chapel?\" asked Bateman.\n\n\"At Seaton. A good seven miles from you,\" said Charles.\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Campbell; \"and he walks to and fro every Sunday.\"\n\n\"That is not like a transition, except a physical one,\" observed Reding.\n\n\"A person must go somewhere,\" answered Campbell; \"I suppose he went to\nchurch up to the week he joined the Romanists.\"\n\n\"Very awful, these defections,\" said Bateman; \"but very satisfactory, a\nmelancholy satisfaction,\" with a look at Charles, \"that the victims of\ndelusions should be at length recovered.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Campbell; \"very sad indeed. I am afraid we must expect a\nnumber more.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know how to think it,\" said Charles; \"the hold our Church\nhas on the mind is so powerful; it is such a wrench to leave it, I\ncannot fancy any party-tie standing against it. Humanly speaking, there\nis far, far more to keep them fast than to carry them away.\"\n\n\"Yes, if they moved as a party,\" said Campbell; \"but that is not the\ncase. They don't move simply because others move, but, poor fellows,\nbecause they can't help it.--Bateman, will you let my chaise be brought\nround?--How _can_ they help it?\" continued he, standing up over the\nfire; \"their Catholic principles lead them on, and there's nothing to\ndrive them back.\"\n\n\"Why should not their love for their own Church?\" asked Bateman; \"it is\ndeplorable, unpardonable.\"\n\n\"They will keep going one after another, as they ripen,\" said Campbell.\n\n\"Did you hear the report--I did not think much of it myself,\" said\nReding,--\"that Smith was moving?\"\n\n\"Not impossible,\" answered Campbell thoughtfully.\n\n\"Impossible, quite impossible,\" cried Bateman; \"such a triumph to the\nenemy; I'll not believe it till I see it.\"\n\n\"_Not_ impossible,\" repeated Campbell, as he buttoned and fitted his\ngreat-coat about him; \"he has shifted his ground.\" His carriage was\nannounced. \"Mr. Reding, I believe I can take you part of your way, if\nyou will accept of a seat in my pony-chaise.\" Charles accepted the\noffer; and Bateman was soon deserted by his two guests.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII.\n\n\nCampbell put Charles down about half-way between Melford and his home.\nIt was bright moonlight; and, after thanking his new friend for the\nlift, he bounded over the stile at the side of the road, and was at once\nburied in the shade of the copse along which his path lay. Soon he came\nin sight of a tall wooden Cross, which, in better days, had been a\nreligious emblem, but had served in latter times to mark the boundary\nbetween two contiguous parishes. The moon was behind him, and the sacred\nsymbol rose awfully in the pale sky, overhanging a pool, which was still\nvenerated in the neighbourhood for its reported miraculous virtue.\nCharles, to his surprise, saw distinctly a man kneeling on the little\nmound out of which the Cross grew; nay, heard him, for his shoulders\nwere bare, and he was using the discipline upon them, while he repeated\nwhat appeared to be some form of devotion. Charles stopped, unwilling to\ninterrupt, yet not knowing how to pass; but the stranger had caught the\nsound of feet, and in a few seconds vanished from his view. He was\novercome with a sudden emotion, which he could not control. \"O happy\ntimes,\" he cried, \"when faith was one! O blessed penitent, whoever you\nare, who know what to believe, and how to gain pardon, and can begin\nwhere others end! Here am I, in my twenty-third year, uncertain about\neverything, because I have nothing to trust.\" He drew near to the Cross,\ntook off his hat, knelt down and kissed the wood, and prayed awhile that\nwhatever might be the consequences, whatever the trial, whatever the\nloss, he might have grace to follow whithersoever God should call him.\nHe then rose and turned to the cold well; he took some water in his palm\nand drank it. He felt as if he could have prayed to the Saint who owned\nthat pool--St. Thomas the Martyr, he believed--to plead for him, and to\naid him in his search after the true faith; but something whispered, \"It\nis wrong;\" and he checked the wish. So, regaining his hat, he passed\naway, and pursued his homeward path at a brisk pace.\n\nThe family had retired for the night, and he went up without delay to\nhis bedroom. Passing through his study, he found a letter lying on his\ntable, without post-mark, which had come for him in his absence. He\nbroke the seal; it was an anonymous paper, and began as follows:--\n\n     \"_Questions for one whom it concerns._\n\n     1. What is meant by the One Church of which the Creed speaks?\"\n\n\"This is too much for to-night,\" thought Charles, \"it is late already;\"\nand he folded it up again and threw it on his dressing-table. \"Some\nwell-meaning person, I dare say, who thinks he knows me.\" He wound up\nhis watch, gave a yawn, and put on his slippers. \"Who can there be in\nthis neighbourhood to write it?\" He opened it again. \"It's certainly a\nCatholic's writing,\" he said. His mind glanced to the person whom he had\nseen under the Cross; perhaps it glanced further. He sat down and began\nreading _in extenso:_--\n\n     \"_Questions for one whom it concerns._\n\n     1. What is meant by the One Church of which the Creed speaks?\n\n     2. Is it a generalization or a thing?\n\n     3. Does it belong to past history or to the present time?\n\n     4. Does not Scripture speak of it as a kingdom?\n\n     5. And a kingdom which was to last to the end?\n\n     6. What is a kingdom? and what is meant when Scripture calls the\n     Church a kingdom?\n\n     7. Is it a visible kingdom, or an invisible?\n\n     8. Can a kingdom have two governments, and these acting in contrary\n     directions?\n\n     9. Is identity of institutions, opinions, or race, sufficient to\n     make two nations one kingdom?\n\n     10. Is the Episcopal form, the hierarchy, or the Apostles' Creed,\n     sufficient to make the Churches of Rome and of England one?\n\n     11. Where there are parts, does not unity require union, and a\n     visible unity require a visible union?\n\n     12. How can two religions be the same which have utterly distinct\n     worships and ideas of worship?\n\n     13. Can two religions be one, if the most sacred and peculiar act\n     of worship in the one is called 'a blasphemous fable and dangerous\n     deceit' in the other?\n\n     14. Has not the One Church of Christ one faith?\n\n     15. Can a Church be Christ's which has not one faith?\n\n     16. Which is contradictory to itself in its documents?\n\n     17. And in different centuries?\n\n     18. And in its documents contrasted with its divines?\n\n     19. And in its divines and members one with another?\n\n     20. What is _the_ faith of the English Church?\n\n     21. How many Councils does the English Church admit?\n\n     22. Does the English Church consider the present Nestorian and\n     Jacobite Churches under an anathema, or part of the visible Church?\n\n     23. Is it necessary, or possible, to believe any one but a\n     professed messenger from God?\n\n     24. Is the English Church, does she claim to be, a messenger from\n     God?\n\n     25. Does she impart the truth, or bid us seek it?\n\n     26. If she leaves us to seek it, do members of the English Church\n     seek it with that earnestness which Scripture enjoins?\n\n     27. Is a person safe who lives without faith, even though he seems\n     to have hope and charity?\"\n\nCharles got very sleepy before he reached the \"twenty-seventhly.\" \"It\nwon't do,\" he said; \"I am only losing my time. They seem well put; but\nthey must stand over.\" He put the paper from him, said his prayers, and\nwas soon fast asleep.\n\nNext morning, on waking, the subject of the letter came into his mind,\nand he lay for some time thinking over it. \"Certainly,\" he said, \"I do\nwish very much to be settled either in the English Church or somewhere\nelse. I wish I knew _what_ Christianity was; I am ready to be at pains\nto seek it, and would accept it eagerly and thankfully, if found. But\nit's a work of time; all the paper-arguments in the world are unequal to\ngiving one a view in a moment. There must be a process; they may shorten\nit, as medicine shortens physical processes, but they can't supersede\nits necessity. I recollect how all my religious doubts and theories went\nto flight on my dear father's death. They weren't part of me, and could\nnot sustain rough weather. Conviction is the eyesight of the mind, not a\nconclusion from premises; God works it, and His works are slow. At least\nso it is with me. I can't believe on a sudden; if I attempt it, I shall\nbe using words for things, and be sure to repent it. Or if not, I shall\ngo right merely by hazard. I must move in what seems God's way; I can\nbut put myself on the road; a higher power must overtake me, and carry\nme forward. At present I have a direct duty upon me, which my dear\nfather left me, to take a good class. This is the path of duty. I won't\nput off the inquiry, but I'll let it proceed in that path. God can bless\nmy reading to my spiritual illumination, as well as anything else. Saul\nsought his father's asses, and found a kingdom. All in good time. When I\nhave taken my degree the subject will properly come on me.\" He sighed.\n\"My degree! those odious Articles! rather, when I have passed my\nexamination. Well, it's no good lying here;\" and he jumped up, and\nsigned himself with the Cross. His eye caught the letter. \"It's well\nwritten--better than Willis could write; it's not Willis's. There's\nsomething about that Willis I don't understand. I wonder how he and his\nmother get on together. I don't think he _has_ any sisters.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII.\n\n\nCampbell had been much pleased with Reding, and his interest in him was\nnot lessened by a hint from Bateman that his allegiance to the English\nChurch was in danger. He called on him in no long time, asked him to\ndinner, and, when Charles had returned his invitation, and Campbell had\naccepted it, the beginning of an acquaintance was formed between the\nrectory at Sutton and the family at Boughton which grew into an intimacy\nas time went on. Campbell was a gentleman, a travelled man, of clear\nhead and ardent mind, candid, well-read in English divinity, a devoted\nAnglican, and the incumbent of a living so well endowed as almost to be\na dignity. Mary was pleased at the introduction, as bringing her brother\nunder the influence of an intellect which he could not make light of;\nand, as Campbell had a carriage, it was natural that he should wish to\nsave Charles the loss of a day's reading and the trouble of a muddy walk\nto the rectory and back by coming over himself to Boughton. Accordingly\nit so happened that he saw Charles twice at his mother's for once that\nhe saw him at Sutton. But whatever came of these visits, nothing\noccurred which particularly bears upon the line of our narrative; so\nlet them pass.\n\nOne day Charles called upon Bateman, and, on entering the room, was\nsurprised to see him and Campbell at luncheon, and in conversation with\na third person. There was a moment's surprise and hesitation on seeing\nhim before they rose and welcomed him as usual. When he looked at the\nstranger he felt a slight awkwardness himself, which he could not\ncontrol. It was Willis; and apparently submitted to the process of\nreconversion. Charles was evidently _de trop_, but there was no help for\nit; so he shook hands with Willis, and accepted the pressing call of\nBateman to seat himself at table, and to share their bread and cheese.\n\nCharles sat down opposite Willis, and for a while could not keep his\neyes from him. At first he had some difficulty in believing he had\nbefore him the impetuous youth he had known two years and a half before.\nHe had always been silent in general company; but in that he was\nchanged, as in everything else. Not that he talked more than was\nnatural, but he talked freely and easily. The great change, however, was\nin his appearance and manner. He had lost his bloom and youthfulness;\nhis expression was sweeter indeed than before, and very placid, but\nthere was a thin line down his face on each side of his mouth; his\ncheeks were wanting in fulness, and he had the air of a man of thirty.\nWhen he entered into conversation, and became animated, his former self\nreturned.\n\n\"I suppose we may all admire this cream at this season,\" said Charles,\nas he helped himself, \"for we are none of us Devonshire men.\"\n\n\"It's not peculiar to Devonshire,\" answered Campbell; \"that is, they\nhave it abroad. At Rome there is a sort of cream or cheese very like it,\nand very common.\"\n\n\"Will butter and cream keep in so warm a climate?\" asked Charles; \"I\nfancied oil was the substitute.\"\n\n\"Rome is not so warm as you fancy,\" said Willis, \"except during the\nsummer.\"\n\n\"Oil? so it is,\" said Campbell; \"thus we read in Scripture of the\nmultiplication of the oil and meal, which seems to answer to bread and\nbutter. The oil in Rome is excellent, so clear and pale; you can eat it\nas milk.\"\n\n\"The taste, I suppose, is peculiar,\" observed Charles.\n\n\"Just at first,\" answered Campbell; \"but one soon gets used to it. All\nsuch substances, milk, butter, cheese, oil, have a particular taste at\nfirst, which use alone gets over. The rich Guernsey butter is too much\nfor strangers, while Russians relish whale-oil. Most of our tastes are\nin a measure artificial.\"\n\n\"It is certainly so with vegetables,\" said Willis; \"when I was a boy I\ncould not eat beans, spinach, asparagus, parsnips, and I think some\nothers.\"\n\n\"Therefore your hermit's fare is not only the most natural, but the only\nnaturally palatable, I suppose,--a crust of bread and a draught from the\nstream,\" replied Campbell.\n\n\"Or the Clerk of Copmanhurst's dry peas,\" said Charles.\n\n\"The macaroni and grapes of the Neapolitans are as natural and more\npalatable,\" said Willis.\n\n\"Rather they are a luxury,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"No,\" answered Campbell, \"not a luxury; a luxury is in its very idea a\nsomething _recherche_. Thus Horace speaks of the '_peregrina lagois_.'\nWhat nature yields _sponte sua_ around you, however delicious, is no\nluxury. Wild ducks are no luxury in your old neighbourhood, amid your\nOxford fens, Bateman; nor grapes at Naples.\"\n\n\"Then the old women here are luxurious over their sixpenn'rth of tea,\"\nsaid Bateman; \"for it comes from China.\"\n\nCampbell was posed for an instant. Somehow neither he nor Bateman were\nquite at their ease, whether with themselves or with each other; it\nmight be Charles's sudden intrusion, or something which had happened\nbefore it. Campbell answered at length that steamers and railroads were\nmaking strange changes; that time and place were vanishing, and price\nwould soon be the only measure of luxury.\n\n\"This seems the measure also of _grasso_ and _magro_ food in Italy,\"\nsaid Willis; \"for I think there are dispensations for butcher's meat in\nLent, in consequence of the dearness of bread and oil.\"\n\n\"This seems to show that the age for abstinences and fastings is past,\"\nobserved Campbell; \"for it's absurd to keep Lent on beef and mutton.\"\n\n\"Oh, Campbell, what are you saying?\" cried Bateman; \"past! are we bound\nby their lax ways in Italy?\"\n\n\"I do certainly think,\" answered Campbell, \"that fasting is unsuitable\nto this age, in England as well as in Rome.\"\n\n\"Take care, my fine fellows,\" thought Charles; \"keep your ranks, or you\nwon't secure your prisoner.\"\n\n\"What, not fast on Friday!\" cried Bateman; \"we always did so most\nrigidly at Oxford.\"\n\n\"It does you credit,\" answered Campbell; \"but I am of Cambridge.\"\n\n\"But what do you say to Rubrics and the Calendar?\" insisted Bateman.\n\n\"They are not binding,\" answered Campbell.\n\n\"They _are_, binding,\" said Bateman.\n\nA pause, as between the rounds of a boxing-match. Reding interposed:\n\"Bateman, cut me, please, a bit of your capital bread--home-made, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"A thousand pardons!\" said Bateman:--\"not binding?--Pass it to him,\nWillis, if you please. Yes, it comes from a farmer, next door. I'm glad\nyou like it.--I repeat, they _are_ binding, Campbell.\"\n\n\"An odd sort of binding, when they have never bound,\" answered Campbell;\n\"they have existed two or three hundred years; when were they ever put\nin force?\"\n\n\"But there they are,\" said Bateman, \"in the Prayer Book.\"\n\n\"Yes, and there let them lie and never get out of it,\" retorted\nCampbell; \"there they will stay till the end of the story.\"\n\n\"Oh, for shame!\" cried Bateman; \"you should aid your mother in a\ndifficulty, and not be like the priest and the Levite.\"\n\n\"My mother does not wish to be aided,\" continued Campbell.\n\n\"Oh, how you talk! What shall I do? What can be done?\" cried poor\nBateman.\n\n\"Done! nothing,\" said Campbell; \"is there no such thing as the desuetude\nof a law? Does not a law cease to be binding when it is not enforced? I\nappeal to Mr. Willis.\"\n\nWillis, thus addressed, answered that he was no moral theologian, but he\nhad attended some schools, and he believed it was the Catholic rule that\nwhen a law had been promulgated, and was not observed by the majority,\nif the legislator knew the state of the case, and yet kept silence, he\nwas considered _ipso facto_ to revoke it.\n\n\"What!\" said Bateman to Campbell, \"do you appeal to the Romish Church?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Campbell; \"I appeal to the whole Catholic Church, of\nwhich the Church of Rome happens in this particular case to be the\nexponent. It is plain common sense, that, if a law is not enforced, at\nlength it ceases to be binding. Else it would be quite a tyranny; we\nshould not know where we were. The Church of Rome does but give\nexpression to this common-sense view.\"\n\n\"Well, then,\" said Bateman, \"I will appeal to the Church of Rome too.\nRome is part of the Catholic Church as well as we: since, then, the\nRomish Church has ever kept up fastings the ordinance is not abolished;\nthe 'greater part' of the Catholic Church has always observed it.\"\n\n\"But it has not,\" said Campbell; \"it now dispenses with fasts, as you\nhave heard.\"\n\nWillis interposed to ask a question. \"Do you mean then,\" he said to\nBateman, \"that the Church of England and the Church of Rome make one\nChurch?\"\n\n\"Most certainly,\" answered Bateman.\n\n\"Is it possible?\" said Willis; \"in what sense of the word _one_?\"\n\n\"In every sense,\" answered Bateman, \"but that of intercommunion.\"\n\n\"That is, I suppose,\" said Willis, \"they are one, except that they have\nno intercourse with each other.\"\n\nBateman assented. Willis continued: \"No intercourse; that is, no social\ndealings, no consulting or arranging, no ordering and obeying, no mutual\nsupport; in short, no visible union.\"\n\nBateman still assented. \"Well, that is my difficulty,\" said Willis; \"I\ncan't understand how two parts can make up one visible body if they are\nnot visibly united; unity implies _union_.\"\n\n\"I don't see that at all,\" said Bateman; \"I don't see that at all. No,\nWillis, you must not expect I shall give that up to you; it is one of\nour points. There is only one visible Church, and therefore the English\nand Romish Churches are both parts of it.\"\n\nCampbell saw clearly that Bateman had got into a difficulty, and he came\nto the rescue in his own way.\n\n\"We must distinguish,\" he said, \"the state of the case more exactly. A\nkingdom may be divided, it may be distracted by parties, by dissensions,\nyet be still a kingdom. That, I conceive, is the real condition of the\nChurch; in this way the Churches of England, Rome, and Greece are one.\"\n\n\"I suppose you will grant,\" said Willis, \"that in proportion as a\nrebellion is strong, so is the unity of the kingdom threatened; and if a\nrebellion is successful, or if the parties in a civil war manage to\ndivide the power and territory between them, then forthwith, instead of\none kingdom, we have two. Ten or fifteen years since, Belgium was part\nof the kingdom of the Netherlands: I suppose you would not call it part\nof that kingdom now? This seems the case of the Churches of Rome and\nEngland.\"\n\n\"Still, a kingdom may be in a state of decay,\" replied Campbell;\n\"consider the case of the Turkish Empire at this moment. The Union\nbetween its separate portions is so languid, that each separate Pasha\nmay almost be termed a separate sovereign; still it is one kingdom.\"\n\n\"The Church, then, at present,\" said Willis, \"is a kingdom tending to\ndissolution?\"\n\n\"Certainly it is,\" answered Campbell.\n\n\"And will ultimately fail?\" asked Willis.\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Campbell; \"when the end comes, according to our Lord's\nsaying, 'When the Son of man cometh, shall He find faith on the earth?'\njust as in the case of the chosen people, the sceptre failed from Judah\nwhen the Shiloh came.\"\n\n\"Surely the Church has failed already _before_ the end,\" said Willis,\n\"according to the view you take of failing. How _can_ any separation be\nmore complete than exists at present between Rome, Greece, and\nEngland?\"\n\n\"They might excommunicate each other,\" said Campbell.\n\n\"Then you are willing,\" said Willis, \"to assign beforehand something\ndefinite, the occurrence of which will constitute a real separation.\"\n\n\"Don't do so,\" said Reding to Campbell; \"it is dangerous; don't commit\nyourself in a moral question; for then, if the thing specified did\noccur, it would be difficult to see our way.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Willis; \"you certainly _would_ be in a difficulty; but you\nwould find your way out, I know. In that case you would choose some\nother _ultimatum_ as your test of schism. There would be,\" he added,\nspeaking with some emotion, \"'in the lowest depth a lower still.'\"\n\nThe concluding words were out of keeping with the tone of the\nconversation hitherto, and fairly excited Bateman, who, for some time,\nhad been an impatient listener.\n\n\"That's a dangerous line, Campbell,\" he said, \"it is indeed; I can't go\nalong with you. It will never do to say that the Church is failing; no,\nit never fails. It is always strong, and pure, and perfect, as the\nProphets describe it. Look at its cathedrals, abbey-churches, and other\nsanctuaries, these fitly typify it.\"\n\n\"My dear Bateman,\" answered Campbell, \"I am as willing as you to\nmaintain the fulfilment of the prophecies made to the Church, but we\nmust allow the _fact_ that the branches of the Church are _divided_,\nwhile we maintain the _doctrine_, that the Church should be one.\"\n\n\"I don't see that at all,\" answered Bateman; \"no, we need not allow it.\nThere's no such thing as Churches, there's but one Church everywhere,\nand it is _not_ divided. It is merely the outward forms, appearances,\nmanifestations of the Church that are divided. The Church is one as much\nas ever it was.\"\n\n\"That will never do,\" said Campbell; and he stood up before the fire in\na state of discomfort. \"Nature never intended you for a\ncontroversialist, my good Bateman,\" he added to himself.\n\n\"It is as I thought,\" said Willis; \"Bateman, you are describing an\ninvisible Church. You hold the indefectibility of the invisible Church,\nnot of the visible.\"\n\n\"They are in a fix,\" thought Charles, \"but I will do my best to tow old\nBateman out;\" so he began: \"No,\" he said, \"Bateman only means that one\nChurch presents, in some particular point, a different appearance from\nanother; but it does not follow that, in fact, they have not a visible\nagreement too. All difference implies agreement; the English and Roman\nChurches agree visibly and differ visibly. Think of the different styles\nof architecture, and you will see, Willis, what he means. A church is a\nchurch all the world over, it is visibly one and the same, and yet how\ndifferent is church from church! Our churches are Gothic, the southern\nchurches are Palladian. How different is a basilica from York Cathedral!\nyet they visibly agree together. No one would mistake either for a\nmosque or a Jewish temple. We may quarrel which is the better style;\none likes the basilica, another calls it pagan.\"\n\n\"That _I_ do,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"A little extreme,\" said Campbell, \"a little extreme, as usual. The\nbasilica is beautiful in its place. There are two things which Gothic\ncannot show--the line or forest of round polished columns, and the\ngraceful dome, circling above one's head like the blue heaven itself.\"\n\nAll parties were glad of this diversion from the religious dispute; so\nthey continued the lighter conversation which had succeeded it with\nconsiderable earnestness.\n\n\"I fear I must confess,\" said Willis, \"that the churches at Rome do not\naffect me like the Gothic; I reverence them, I feel awe in them, but I\nlove, I feel a sensible pleasure at the sight of the Gothic arch.\"\n\n\"There are other reasons for that in Rome,\" said Campbell; \"the churches\nare so unfinished, so untidy. Rome is a city of ruins! the Christian\ntemples are built on ruins, and they themselves are generally\ndilapidated or decayed; thus they are ruins of ruins.\" Campbell was on\nan easier subject than that of Anglo-Catholicism, and, no one\ninterrupting him, he proceeded flowingly: \"In Rome you have huge high\nbuttresses in the place of columns, and these not cased with marble, but\nof cold white plaster or paint. They impart an indescribable forlorn\nlook to the churches.\"\n\nWillis said he often wondered what took so many foreigners, that is,\nProtestants, to Rome; it was so dreary, so melancholy a place; a number\nof old, crumbling, shapeless brick masses, the ground unlevelled, the\nstraight causeways fenced by high monotonous walls, the points of\nattraction straggling over broad solitudes, faded palaces, trees\nuniversally pollarded, streets ankle deep in filth or eyes-and-mouth\ndeep in a cloud of whirling dust and straws, the climate most\ncapricious, the evening air most perilous. Naples was an earthly\nparadise; but Rome was a city of faith. To seek the shrines that it\ncontained was a veritable penance, as was fitting. He understood\nCatholics going there; he was perplexed at Protestants.\n\n\"There is a spell about the _limina Apostolorum_,\" said Charles; \"St.\nPeter and St. Paul are not there for nothing.\"\n\n\"There is a more tangible reason,\" said Campbell; \"it is a place where\npersons of all nations are to be found; no society is so varied as the\nRoman. You go to a ballroom; your host, whom you bow to in the first\napartment, is a Frenchman; as you advance your eye catches Massena's\ngranddaughter in conversation with Mustapha Pasha; you soon find\nyourself seated between a Yankee _charge d'affaires_ and a Russian\ncolonel; and an Englishman is playing the fool in front of you.\"\n\nHere Campbell looked at his watch, and then at Willis, whom he had\ndriven over to Melford to return Bateman's call. It was time for them to\nbe going, or they would be overtaken by the evening. Bateman, who had\nremained in a state of great dissatisfaction since he last spoke, which\nhad not been for a quarter of an hour past, did not find himself in\nspirits to try much to detain either them or Reding; so he was speedily\nleft to himself. He drew his chair to the fire, and for a while felt\nnothing more than a heavy load of disgust. After a time, however, his\nthoughts began to draw themselves out into series, and took the\nfollowing form: \"It's too bad, too bad,\" he said; \"Campbell is a very\nclever man--far cleverer than I am; a well-read man, too; but he has no\ntact, no tact. It is deplorable; Reding's coming was one misfortune;\nhowever, we might have got over that, we might have even turned it to an\nadvantage; but to use such arguments as he did! how could he hope to\nconvince him? he made us both a mere laughing-stock.... How did he throw\noff? Oh, he said that the Rubrics were not binding. Who ever heard such\na thing--at least from an Anglo-Catholic? Why pretend to be a good\nCatholic with such views? better call himself a Protestant or Erastian\nat once, and one would know where to find him. Such a bad impression it\nmust make on Willis; I saw it did; he could hardly keep from smiling:\nbut Campbell has no tact at all. He goes on, on, his own way, bringing\nout his own thoughts, which are very clever, original certainly, but\nnever considering his company. And he's so positive, so knock-me-down;\nit is quite unpleasant, I don't know how to sit it sometimes. Oh, it is\na cruel thing this--the effect must be wretched. Poor Willis! I declare\nI don't think we have moved him one inch, I really don't. I fancied at\none time he was even laughing at _me_.... What was it he said\nafterwards? there was something else, I know. I recollect; that the\nCatholic Church was in ruins, had broken to pieces. What a paradox!\nwho'll believe that but he? I declare I am so vexed I don't know what to\nbe at.\" He jumped up and began walking to and fro. \"But all this is\nbecause the Bishops won't interfere; one can't say it, that's the worst,\nbut they are at the bottom of the evil. They have but to put out their\nlittle finger and enforce the Rubrics, and then the whole controversy\nwould be at an end.... I knew there was something else, yes! He said we\nneed not fast! But Cambridge men are always peculiar, they always have\nsome whim or other; he ought to have been at Oxford, and we should have\nmade a man of him. He has many good points, but he runs theories, and\nrides hobbies, and drives consequences, to death.\"\n\nHere he was interrupted by his clerk, who told him that John Tims had\ntaken his oath that his wife should not be churched before the\ncongregation, and was half-minded to take his infant to the Methodists\nfor baptism; and his thoughts took a different direction.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX.\n\n\nThe winter had been on the whole dry and pleasant, but in February and\nMarch the rains were so profuse, and the winds so high, that Bateman saw\nvery little of either Charles or Willis. He did not abandon his designs\non the latter, but it was an anxious question how best to conduct them.\nAs to Campbell, he was resolved to exclude him from any participation in\nthem; but he hesitated about Reding. He had found him far less\ndefinitely Roman than he expected, and he conjectured that, by making\nhim his confidant and employing him against Willis, he really might\nsucceed in giving him an Anglican direction. Accordingly, he told him of\nhis anxiety to restore Willis to \"the Church of his baptism;\" and not\ndiscouraged by Charles's advice to let well alone, for he might succeed\nin drawing him from Rome without reclaiming him to Anglicanism, the\nweather having improved, he asked the two to dinner on one of the later\nSundays in Lent. He determined to make a field-day of it; and, with that\nview, he carefully got up some of the most popular works against the\nChurch of Rome. After much thought he determined to direct his attack on\nsome of the \"practical evils,\" as he considered them, of \"Romanism;\" as\nbeing more easy of proof than points of doctrine and history, in which,\ntoo, for what he knew, Willis might by this time be better read than\nhimself. He considered, too, that, if Willis had been at all shaken in\nhis new faith when he was abroad, it was by the practical\nexemplification which he had before his eyes of the issue of its\npeculiar doctrines when freely carried out. Moreover, to tell the truth,\nour good friend had not a very clear apprehension how much doctrine he\nheld in common with the Church of Rome, or where he was to stop in the\nseveral details of Pope Pius's Creed; in consequence, it was evidently\nsafer to confine his attack to matters of practice.\n\n\"You see, Willis,\" he said, as they sat down to table, \"I have given you\nabstinence food, not knowing whether you avail yourself of the\ndispensation. We shall eat meat ourselves; but don't think we don't fast\nat proper times; I don't agree with Campbell at all; we don't fast,\nhowever, on Sunday. That is our rule, and, I take it, a primitive one.\"\n\nWillis answered that he did not know how the primitive usage lay, but he\nsupposed that both of them allowed that matters of discipline might be\naltered by the proper authority.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Bateman, \"so that everything is done consistently\nwith the inspired text of Scripture;\"--he stopped, itching, if he could,\nto bring in some great subject, but not seeing how. He saw he must rush\n_in medias res_; so he added,--\"with which inspired text, I presume,\nwhat one sees in foreign churches is not very consistent.\"\n\n\"What? I suppose you mean antependia, rere-dosses, stone altars, copes,\nand mitres,\" said Willis innocently; \"which certainly are not in\nScripture.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Bateman; \"but these, though not in Scripture, are not\ninconsistent with Scripture. They are all very right; but the worship of\nSaints, especially the Blessed Virgin, and of relics, the gabbling over\nprayers in an unknown tongue, Indulgences, and infrequent communions, I\nsuspect are directly unscriptural.\"\n\n\"My dear Bateman,\" said Willis, \"you seem to live in an atmosphere of\ncontroversy; so it was at Oxford; there was always argument going on in\nyour rooms. Religion is a thing to enjoy, not to quarrel about; give me\na slice more of that leg of mutton.\"\n\n\"Yes, Bateman,\" said Reding, \"you must let us enjoy our meat. Willis\ndeserves it, for I believe he has had a fair walk to-day. Have you not\nwalked a good part of the way to Seaton and back? a matter of fourteen\nmiles, and hilly ground; it can't be dry, too, in parts yet.\"\n\n\"True,\" said Bateman; \"take a glass of wine, Willis; it's good Madeira;\nan aunt of mine sent it me.\"\n\n\"He puts us to shame,\" said Charles, \"who have stepped into church from\nour bedroom; he has trudged a pilgrimage to his.\"\n\n\"I'm not saying a word against our dear friend Willis,\" said Bateman;\n\"it was merely a point on which I thought he would agree with me, that\nthere were many corruptions of worship in foreign churches.\"\n\nAt last, when his silence was observable, Willis said that he supposed\nthat persons who were not Catholics could not tell what were corruptions\nand what not. Here the subject dropped again; for Willis did not seem in\nhumour--perhaps he was too tired--to continue it. So they ate and drank,\nwith nothing but very commonplace remarks to season their meal withal,\ntill the cloth was removed. The table was then shoved back a bit, and\nthe three young men got over the fire, which Bateman made burn brightly.\nTwo of them at least had deserved some relaxation, and they were the two\nwho were to be opponent and respondent in the approaching argument--one\nhad had a long walk, the other had had two full services, a baptism, and\na funeral. The armistice continued a good quarter of an hour, which\nCharles and Willis spent in easy conversation; till Bateman, who had\nbeen priming himself the while with his controversial points, found\nhimself ready for the assault, and opened it in form.\n\n\"Come, my dear Willis,\" he said, \"I can't let you off so; I am sure what\nyou saw abroad scandalized you.\"\n\nThis was almost rudely put. Willis said that, had he been a Protestant,\nhe might have been easily shocked; but he had been a Catholic; and he\ndrew an almost imperceptible sigh. Besides, had he had a temptation to\nbe shocked, he should have recollected that he was in a Church which in\nall greater matters could not err. He had not come to the Church to\ncriticize, he said, but to learn. \"I don't know,\" he said, \"what is\nmeant by saying that we ought to have faith, that faith is a grace,\nthat faith is the means of our salvation, if there is nothing to\nexercise it. Faith goes against sight; well, then, unless there are\nsights which offend you, there is nothing for it to go against.\"\n\nBateman called this a paradox; \"If so,\" he said, \"why don't we become\nMahometans? we should have enough to believe then.\"\n\n\"Why, just consider,\" said Willis; \"supposing your friend, an honourable\nman, is accused of theft, and appearances are against him, would you at\nonce admit the charge? It would be a fair trial of your faith in him;\nand if he were able in the event satisfactorily to rebut it, I don't\nthink he would thank you, should you have waited for his explanation\nbefore you took his part, instead of knowing him too well to suspect it.\nIf, then, I come to the Church with faith in her, whatever I see there,\neven if it surprises me, is but a trial of my faith.\"\n\n\"That is true,\" said Charles; \"but there must be some ground for faith;\nwe do not believe without reason; and the question is, whether what the\nChurch does, as in worship, is not a fair matter to form a judgment\nupon, for or against.\"\n\n\"A Catholic,\" said Willis, \"as I was when I was abroad, has already\nfound his grounds, for he believes; but for one who has not--I mean a\nProtestant--I certainly consider it is very uncertain whether he will\ntake _the_ view of Catholic worship which he ought to take. It may\neasily happen that he will not understand it.\"\n\n\"Yet persons have before now been converted by the sight of Catholic\nworship,\" said Reding.\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Willis: \"God works in a thousand ways; there is\nmuch in Catholic worship to strike a Protestant, but there is much which\nwill perplex him; for instance, what Bateman has alluded to, our\ndevotion to the Blessed Virgin.\"\n\n\"Surely,\" said Bateman, \"this is a plain matter; it is quite impossible\nthat the worship paid by Roman Catholics to the Blessed Mary should not\ninterfere with the supreme adoration due to the Creator alone.\"\n\n\"This is just an instance in point,\" said Willis; \"you see you are\njudging _a priori_; you know nothing of the state of the case from\nexperience, but you say, 'It must be; it can't be otherwise.' This is\nthe way a Protestant judges, and comes to one conclusion; a Catholic,\nwho acts, and does not speculate, feels the truth of the contrary.\"\n\n\"Some things,\" said Bateman, \"are so like axioms, as to supersede trial.\nOn the other hand, familiarity is very likely to hide from people the\nreal evil of certain practices.\"\n\n\"How strange it is,\" answered Willis, \"that you don't perceive that this\nis the very argument which various sects urge against you Anglicans! For\ninstance, the Unitarian says that the doctrine of the Atonement _must_\nlead to our looking at the Father, not as a God of love, but of\nvengeance only; and he calls the doctrine of eternal punishment immoral.\nAnd so, the Wesleyan or Baptist declares that it is an absurdity to\nsuppose any one can hold the doctrine of baptismal regeneration, and\nreally be spiritual; that the doctrine _must_ have a numbing effect on\nthe mind, and destroy its simple reliance on the atonement of Christ. I\nwill take another instance: many a good Catholic, who never came across\nAnglicans, is as utterly unable to realize your position as you are to\nrealize his. He cannot make out how you can be so illogical as not to go\nforward or backward; nay, he pronounces your professed state of mind\nimpossible; he does not believe in its existence. I may deplore your\nstate; I may think you illogical and worse; but I know it is a state\nwhich does exist. As, then, I admit that a person can hold one Catholic\nChurch, yet without believing that the Roman Communion is it, so I put\nit to you, even as an _argumentum ad hominem_, whether you ought not to\nbelieve that we can honour our Blessed Lady as the first of creatures,\nwithout interfering with the honour due to God? At most, you ought to\ncall us only illogical, you ought not to deny that we do what we say we\ndo.\"\n\n\"I make a distinction,\" said Bateman; \"it is quite possible, I fully\ngrant, for an educated Romanist to distinguish between the devotion paid\nby him to the Blessed Virgin, and the worship of God; I only say that\nthe multitude will not distinguish.\"\n\n\"I know you say so,\" answered Willis; \"and still, I repeat, not from\nexperience, but on an _a priori_ ground. You say, not 'it is so,' but\n'it _must_ be so.'\"\n\nThere was a pause in the conversation, and then Bateman recommenced it.\n\n\"You may give us some trouble,\" said he, laughing, \"but we are resolved\nto have you back, my good Willis. Now consider, you are a lover of\ntruth: is that Church from heaven which tells untruths?\"\n\nWillis laughed too; \"We must define the words _truth_ and _untruth_,\" he\nsaid; \"but, subject to that definition, I have no hesitation in\nenunciating the truism, that a Church is not from heaven which tells\nuntruths.\"\n\n\"Of course, you can't deny the proposition,\" said Bateman; \"well, then,\nis it not quite certain that in Rome itself there are relics which all\nlearned men now give up, and which yet are venerated as relics? For\ninstance, Campbell tells me that the reputed heads of St. Peter and St.\nPaul, in some great Roman basilica, are certainly not the heads of the\nApostles, because the head of St. Paul was found with his body, after\nthe fire at his church some years since.\"\n\n\"I don't know about the particular instance,\" answered Willis; \"but you\nare opening a large question which cannot be settled in a few words. If\nI must speak, I should say this: I should begin with the assumption that\nthe existence of relics is not improbable; do you grant _that_?\"\n\n\"I grant nothing,\" said Bateman; \"but go on.\"\n\n\"Why you have plenty of heathen relics, which you admit. What is\nPompeii, and all that is found there, but one vast heathen relic? why\nshould there not be Christian relics in Rome and elsewhere as well as\npagan?\"\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"Well, and relics may be identified. You have the tomb of the Scipios,\nwith their names on them. Did you find ashes in one of them, I suppose\nyou would be pretty certain that they were the ashes of a Scipio.\"\n\n\"To the point,\" cried Bateman, \"quicker.\"\n\n\"St. Peter,\" continued Willis, \"speaks of David, 'whose sepulchre is\nwith you unto this day.' Therefore it's nothing wonderful that a\nreligious relic should be preserved eleven hundred years, and identified\nto be such, when a nation makes a point of preserving it.\"\n\n\"This is beating about the bush,\" cried Bateman impatiently; \"get on\nquicker.\"\n\n\"Let me go on my own way,\" said Willis--\"then there is nothing\nimprobable, considering Christians have always been very careful about\nthe memorials of sacred things--\"\n\n\"You've not proved that,\" said Bateman, fearing that some manoeuvre,\nhe could not tell what, was in progress.\n\n\"Well,\" said Willis, \"you don't doubt it, I suppose, at least from the\nfourth century, when St. Helena brought from the Holy Land the memorials\nof our Lord's passion, and lodged them at Rome in the Basilica, which\nwas thereupon called Santa Croce. As to the previous times of\npersecution, Christians, of course, had fewer opportunities of showing a\nsimilar devotion, and historical records are less copious; yet, in spite\nof this, its existence is as certain as any fact of history. They\ncollected the bones of St. Polycarp, the immediate disciple of St. John,\nafter he was burnt; as of St. Ignatius before him, after his exposure to\nthe beasts; and so in like manner the bones or blood of all the martyrs.\nNo one doubts it; I never heard of any one who did. So the disciples\ntook up the Baptist's body--it would have been strange if they had\nnot--and buried it 'in _the_ sepulchre,' as the Evangelist says,\nspeaking of it as known. Now, why should they not in like manner, and\neven with greater reason, have rescued the bodies of St. Peter and St.\nPaul, if it were only for decent burial? Is it then wonderful, if the\nbodies were rescued, that they should be afterwards preserved?\"\n\n\"But they can't be in two places at once,\" said Bateman.\n\n\"But hear me,\" answered Willis; \"I say then if there is a tradition\nthat in a certain place there is a relic of an apostle, there is at\nfirst sight a probability that it _is_ there; the presumption is in its\nfavour. Can you deny it? Well, if the same relic is reported to be in\ntwo places, then one or the other tradition is erroneous, and the _prima\nfacie_ force of both traditions is weakened; but I should not actually\ndiscard either at once; each has its force still, though neither so\ngreat a force. Now, suppose there are circumstances which confirm the\none, the other is weakened still further, and at length the probability\nof its truth may become evanescent; and when a fair interval has passed,\nand there is no change of evidence in its favour, then it is at length\ngiven up. But all this is a work of time; meanwhile, it is not a bit\nmore of an objection to the doctrine and practice of relic-veneration\nthat a body is said to lie in two places, than to profane history that\nCharles I. was reported by some authorities to be buried at Windsor, by\nothers at Westminster; which question was decided just before our\ntimes. It is a question of evidence, and must be treated as such.\"\n\n\"But if St. Paul's head was found under his own church,\" said Bateman,\n\"it's pretty clear it is not preserved at the other basilica.\"\n\n\"True,\" answered Willis; \"but grave questions of this kind cannot be\ndecided in a moment. I don't know myself the circumstances of the case,\nand do but take your account of it. It has to be proved, then, I\nsuppose, that it _was_ St. Paul's head which was found with his body;\nfor, since he was beheaded, it would not be attached to it. This is one\nquestion, and others would arise. It is not easy to settle a question of\nhistory. Questions which seem settled revive. It is very well for\nsecular historians to give up a tradition or testimony at once, and for\na generation to oh-oh it; but the Church cannot do so; she has a\nreligious responsibility, and must move slowly. Take the _chance_ of its\nturning out that the heads at St. John Lateran were, after all, those of\nthe two Apostles, and that she had cast them aside. Questions, I say,\nrevive. Did not Walpole make it highly probable that the two little\nprinces had a place in the procession at King Richard's coronation,\nthough a century before him two skeletons of boys were found in the\nTower at the very place where the children of Edward were said to have\nbeen murdered and buried by the Duke of Gloucester? I speak from memory,\nbut the general fact which I am illustrating is undeniable. Ussher,\nPearson, and Voss proved that St. Ignatius's shorter Epistles were\ngenuine; and now, after the lapse of two centuries, the question is at\nleast plausibly mooted again.\"\n\nThere was another pause, while Bateman thought over his facts and\narguments, but nothing was forthcoming at the moment. Willis continued:\n\"You must consider also that reputed relics, such as you have mentioned,\nare generally in the custody of religious bodies, who are naturally very\njealous of attempts to prove them spurious, and, with a pardonable\n_esprit de corps_, defend them with all their might, and oppose\nobstacles in the way of an adverse decision; just as your own society\ndefends, most worthily, the fair fame of your foundress, Queen Boadicea.\nWere the case given against her by every tribunal in the land, your\nvaliant and loyal Head would not abandon her; it would break his\nmagnanimous heart; he would die in her service as a good knight. Both\nfrom religious duty, then, and from human feeling, it is a very arduous\nthing to get a received relic disowned.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Bateman, \"to my poor judgment it does seem a dishonesty to\nkeep up inscriptions, for instance, which every one knows not to be\ntrue.\"\n\n\"My dear Bateman, that is begging the question,\" said Willis; \"_every_\nbody does _not_ know it; it is a point in course of settlement, but not\nsettled; you may say that _individuals_ have settled it, or it _may_ be\nsettled, but it is not settled yet. Parallel cases happen frequently in\ncivil matters, and no one speaks harshly of existing individuals or\nbodies in consequence. Till lately the Monument in London bore an\ninscription to the effect that London had been burned by us poor\nPapists. A hundred years ago, Pope, the poet, had called the 'column' 'a\ntall bully' which 'lifts its head and lies,' Yet the inscription was not\nremoved till a few years since--I believe when the Monument was\nrepaired. That was an opportunity for erasing a calumny which, till\nthen, had not been definitely pronounced to be such, and not pronounced\nin deference to the _prima facie_ authority of a statement\ncontemporaneous with the calamity which it recorded. There is never a\n_point_ of time at which you can say, 'The tradition is now disproved.'\nWhen a received belief has been apparently exposed, the question lies\ndormant for the opportunity of fresh arguments; when none appear, then\nat length an accident, such as the repair of a building, despatches it.\"\n\n\"We have somehow got off the subject,\" thought Bateman; and he sat\nfidgeting about to find the thread of his argument. Reding put in an\nobjection; he said that no one knew or cared about the inscription on\nthe Monument, but religious veneration was paid to the two heads at St.\nJohn Lateran.\n\n\"Right,\" said Bateman, \"that's just what I meant to say.\"\n\n\"Well,\" answered Willis, \"as to the particular case--mind, I am taking\nyour account of it, for I don't profess to know how the matter lies. But\nlet us consider the extent of the mistake. There is no doubt in the\nworld that at least they are the heads of martyrs; the only question is\nthis, and no more, whether they are the very heads of the two Apostles.\nFrom time immemorial they have been preserved upon or under the altar as\nthe heads of saints or martyrs; and it requires to know very little of\nChristian antiquities to be perfectly certain that they really are\nsaintly relics, even though unknown. Hence the sole mistake is, that\nCatholics have venerated, what ought to be venerated anyhow, under a\nwrong name; perhaps have expected miracles (which they had a right to\nexpect), and have experienced them (as they might well experience them),\nbecause they _were_ the relics of saints, though they were in error as\nto what saints. This surely is no great matter.\"\n\n\"You have made three assumptions,\" said Bateman; \"first, that none but\nthe relics of saints have been placed under altars; secondly, that these\nrelics were always there; thirdly--thirdly--I know there was a\nthird--let me see--\"\n\n\"Most true,\" said Willis, interrupting him, \"and I will help you to some\nothers. I have assumed that there are Christians in the world called\nCatholics; again, that they think it right to venerate relics; but, my\ndear Bateman, these were the grounds, and not the point of our argument;\nand if they are to be questioned, it must be in a distinct dispute: but\nI really think we have had enough of disputation.\"\n\n\"Yes, Bateman,\" said Charles; \"it is getting late. I must think of\nreturning. Give us some tea, and let us begone.\"\n\n\"Go home?\" cried Bateman; \"why, we have just done dinner, and done\nnothing else as yet; I had a great deal to say.\"\n\nHowever, he rang the bell for tea, and had the table cleared.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX.\n\n\nThe conversation flagged; Bateman was again busy with his memory; and he\nwas getting impatient too; time was slipping away, and no blow struck;\nmoreover, Willis was beginning to gape, and Charles seemed impatient to\nbe released. \"These Romanists put things so plausibly,\" he said to\nhimself, \"but very unfairly, most unfairly; one ought to be up to their\ndodges. I dare say, if the truth were known, Willis has had lessons; he\nlooks so demure; I dare say he is keeping back a great deal, and playing\nupon my ignorance. Who knows? perhaps he's a concealed Jesuit.\" It was\nan awful thought, and suspended the course of his reflections some\nseconds. \"I wonder what he does really think; it's so difficult to get\nat the bottom of them; they won't tell tales, and they are under\nobedience; one never knows when to believe them. I suspect he has been\nwofully disappointed with Romanism; he looks so thin; but of course he\nwon't say so; it hurts a man's pride, and he likes to be consistent; he\ndoesn't like to be laughed at, and so he makes the best of things. I\nwish I knew how to treat him; I was wrong in having Reding here; of\ncourse Willis would not be confidential before a third person. He's\nlike the fox that lost his tail. It was bad tact in me; I see it now;\nwhat a thing it is to have tact! it requires very delicate tact. There\nare so many things I wished to say, about Indulgences, about their so\nseldom communicating; I think I must ask him about the Mass.\" So, after\nfidgeting a good deal within, while he was ostensibly employed in making\ntea, he commenced his last assault.\n\n\"Well, we shall have you back again among us by next Christmas, Willis,\"\nhe said; \"I can't give you greater law; I am certain of it; it takes\ntime, but slow and sure. What a joyful time it will be! I can't tell\nwhat keeps you; you are doing nothing; you are flung into a corner; you\nare wasting life. _What_ keeps you?\"\n\nWillis looked odd; then he simply answered, \"Grace.\"\n\nBateman was startled, but recovered himself; \"Heaven forbid,\" he said,\n\"that I should treat these things lightly, or interfere with you unduly.\nI know, my dear friend, what a serious fellow you are; but do tell me,\njust tell me, how can you justify the Mass, as it is performed abroad;\nhow can it be called a 'reasonable service,' when all parties conspire\nto gabble it over as if it mattered not a jot who attended to it, or\neven understood it? Speak, man, speak,\" he added, gently shaking him by\nthe shoulder.\n\n\"These are such difficult questions,\" answered Willis; \"must I speak?\nSuch difficult questions,\" he continued, rising into a more animated\nmanner, and kindling as he went on; \"I mean, people view them so\ndifferently: it is so difficult to convey to one person the idea of\nanother. The idea of worship is different in the Catholic Church from\nthe idea of it in your Church; for, in truth, the _religions_ are\ndifferent. Don't deceive yourself, my dear Bateman,\" he said tenderly,\n\"it is not that ours is your religion carried a little farther,--a\nlittle too far, as you would say. No, they differ in kind, not in\ndegree; ours is one religion, yours another. And when the time comes,\nand come it will, for you, alien as you are now, to submit yourself to\nthe gracious yoke of Christ, then, my dearest Bateman, it will be\n_faith_ which will enable you to bear the ways and usages of Catholics,\nwhich else might perhaps startle you. Else, the habits of years, the\nassociations in your mind of a certain outward behaviour with real\ninward acts of devotion, might embarrass you, when you had to conform\nyourself to other habits, and to create for yourself other associations.\nBut this faith, of which I speak, the great gift of God, will enable you\nin that day to overcome yourself, and to submit, as your judgment, your\nwill, your reason, your affections, so your tastes and likings, to the\nrule and usage of the Church. Ah, that faith should be necessary in such\na matter, and that what is so natural and becoming under the\ncircumstances, should have need of an explanation! I declare, to me,\" he\nsaid, and he clasped his hands on his knees, and looked forward as if\nsoliloquizing, \"to me nothing is so consoling, so piercing, so\nthrilling, so overcoming, as the Mass, said as it is among us. I could\nattend Masses for ever, and not be tired. It is not a mere form of\nwords,--it is a great action, the greatest action that can be on earth.\nIt is, not the invocation merely, but, if I dare use the word, the\nevocation of the Eternal. He becomes present on the altar in flesh and\nblood, before whom angels bow and devils tremble. This is that awful\nevent which is the scope, and is the interpretation, of every part of\nthe solemnity. Words are necessary, but as means, not as ends; they are\nnot mere addresses to the throne of grace, they are instruments of what\nis far higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on as if\nimpatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go, the whole is quick;\nfor they are all parts of one integral action. Quickly they go; for they\nare awful words of sacrifice, they are a work too great to delay upon;\nas when it was said in the beginning, 'What thou doest, do quickly.'\nQuickly they pass; for the Lord Jesus goes with them, as He passed along\nthe lake in the days of His flesh, quickly calling first one and then\nanother. Quickly they pass; because as the lightning which shineth from\none part of the heaven unto the other, so is the coming of the Son of\nMan. Quickly they pass; for they are as the words of Moses, when the\nLord came down in the cloud, calling on the Name of the Lord as He\npassed by, 'The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious,\nlong-suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth.' And as Moses on the\nmountain, so we too 'make haste and bow our heads to the earth, and\nadore.' So we, all around, each in his place, look out for the great\nAdvent, 'waiting for the moving of the water.' Each in his place, with\nhis own heart, with his own wants, with his own thoughts, with his own\nintention, with his own prayers, separate but concordant, watching what\nis going on, watching its progress, uniting in its consummation;--not\npainfully and hopelessly following a hard form of prayer from beginning\nto end, but, like a concert of musical instruments, each different, but\nconcurring in a sweet harmony, we take our part with God's priest,\nsupporting him, yet guided by him. There are little children there, and\nold men, and simple labourers, and students in seminaries, priests\npreparing for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving; there are\ninnocent maidens, and there are penitent sinners; but out of these many\nminds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great Action is the measure\nand the scope of it. And oh, my dear Bateman,\" he added, turning to him,\n\"you ask me whether this is not a formal, unreasonable service--it is\nwonderful!\" he cried, rising up, \"quite wonderful. When will these dear,\ngood people be enlightened? _O Sapientia, fortiter suaviterque disponens\nomnia, O Adonai, O Clavis David et Exspectatio gentium, veni ad\nsalvandum nos, Domine Deus noster._\"\n\nNow, at least, there was no mistaking Willis. Bateman stared, and was\nalmost frightened at a burst of enthusiasm which he had been far from\nexpecting. \"Why, Willis,\" he said, \"it is not true, then, after all,\nwhat we heard, that you were somewhat dubious, shaky, in your adherence\nto Romanism? I'm sure I beg your pardon; I would not for the world have\nannoyed you, had I known the truth.\"\n\nWillis's face still glowed, and he looked as youthful and radiant as he\nhad been two years before. There was nothing ungentle in his\nimpetuosity; a smile, almost a laugh, was on his face, as if he was\nhalf ashamed of his own warmth; but this took nothing from its evident\nsincerity. He seized Bateman's two hands, before the latter knew where\nhe was, lifted him up out of his seat, and, raising his own mouth close\nto his ear, said, in a low voice, \"I would to God, that not only thou,\nbut also all who hear me this day, were both in little and in much such\nas I am, except these chains.\" Then, reminding him it had grown late,\nand bidding him good-night, he left the room with Charles.\n\nBateman remained a while with his back to the fire after the door had\nclosed; presently he began to give expression to his thoughts. \"Well,\"\nhe said, \"he's a brick, a regular brick; he has almost affected me\nmyself. What a way those fellows have with them! I declare his touch has\nmade my heart beat; how catching enthusiasm is! Any one but I might\nreally have been unsettled. He _is_ a real good fellow; what a pity we\nhave not got him! he's just the sort of man we want. He'd make a\nsplendid Anglican; he'd convert half the Dissenters in the country.\nWell, we shall have them in time; we must not be impatient. But the idea\nof his talking of converting _me_! 'in little and in much,' as he worded\nit! By-the-bye, what did he mean by 'except these chains'?\" He sat\nruminating on the difficulty; at first he was inclined to think that,\nafter all, he might have some misgiving about his position; then he\nthought that perhaps he had a hair-shirt or a _catenella_ on him; and\nlastly, he came to the conclusion that he had just meant nothing at all,\nand did but finish the quotation he had begun.\n\nAfter passing some little time in this state, he looked towards the\ntea-tray; poured himself out another cup of tea; ate a bit of toast;\ntook the coals off the fire; blew out one of the candles, and, taking up\nthe other, left the parlour and wound like an omnibus up the steep\ntwisting staircase to his bedroom.\n\nMeanwhile Willis and Charles were proceeding to their respective homes.\nFor a while they had to pursue the same path, which they did in silence.\nCharles had been moved far more than Bateman, or rather touched, by the\nenthusiasm of his Catholic friend, though, from a difficulty in finding\nlanguage to express himself, and a fear of being carried off his legs,\nhe had kept his feelings to himself. When they were about to part,\nWillis said to him, in a subdued tone, \"You are soon going to Oxford,\ndearest Reding; oh, that you were one with us! You have it in you. I\nhave thought of you at Mass many times. Our priest has said Mass for\nyou. Oh, my dear friend, quench not God's grace; listen to His call; you\nhave had what others have not. What you want is faith. I suspect you\nhave quite proof enough; enough to be converted on. But faith is a gift;\npray for that great gift, without which you cannot come to the Church;\nwithout which,\" and he paused, \"you cannot walk aright when you are in\nthe Church. And now farewell! alas, our path divides; all is easy to him\nthat believeth. May God give you that gift of faith, as He has given me!\nFarewell again; who knows when I may see you next, and where? may it be\nin the courts of the true Jerusalem, the Queen of Saints, the Holy\nRoman Church, the Mother of us all!\" He drew Charles to him and kissed\nhis cheek, and was gone before Charles had time to say a word.\n\nYet Charles could not have spoken had he had ever so much opportunity.\nHe set off at a brisk pace, cutting down with his stick the twigs and\nbrambles which the pale twilight discovered in his path. It seemed as if\nthe kiss of his friend had conveyed into his own soul the enthusiasm\nwhich his words had betokened. He felt himself possessed, he knew not\nhow, by a high superhuman power, which seemed able to push through\nmountains, and to walk the sea. With winter around him, he felt within\nlike the spring-tide, when all is new and bright. He perceived that he\nhad found, what indeed he had never sought, because he had never known\nwhat it was, but what he had ever wanted,--a soul sympathetic with his\nown. He felt he was no longer alone in the world, though he was losing\nthat true congenial mind the very moment he had found him. Was this, he\nasked himself, the communion of Saints? Alas! how could it be, when he\nwas in one communion and Willis in another? \"O mighty Mother!\" burst\nfrom his lips; he quickened his pace almost to a trot, scaling the steep\nascents and diving into the hollows which lay between him and Boughton.\n\"O mighty Mother!\" he still said, half unconsciously; \"O mighty Mother!\nI come, O mighty Mother! I come; but I am far from home. Spare me a\nlittle; I come with what speed I may, but I am slow of foot, and not as\nothers, O mighty Mother!\"\n\nBy the time he had walked two miles in this excitement, bodily and\nmental, he felt himself, as was not wonderful, considerably exhausted.\nHe slackened his pace, and gradually came to himself, but still he went\non, as if mechanically, \"O mighty Mother!\" Suddenly he cried, \"Hallo!\nwhere did I get these words? Willis did not use them. Well, I must be on\nmy guard against these wild ways. Any one can be an enthusiast;\nenthusiasm is not truth ... O mighty Mother!... Alas, I know where my\nheart is! but I must go by reason ... O mighty Mother!\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI.\n\n\nThe time came at length for Charles to return to Oxford; but during the\nlast month scruples had arisen in his mind, whether, with his present\nfeelings, he could consistently even present himself for his\nexamination. No subscription was necessary for his entrance into the\nschools, but he felt that the honours of the class-list were only\nintended for those who were _bona fide_ adherents of the Church of\nEngland. He laid his difficulty before Carlton, who in consequence did\nhis best to ascertain thoroughly his present state of mind. It seemed\nthat Charles had no _intention_, either now or at any future day, of\njoining the Church of Rome; that he felt he could not take such a step\nat present without distinct sin; that it would simply be against his\nconscience to do so; that he had no feeling whatever that God called him\nto do so; that he felt that nothing could justify so serious an act but\nthe conviction that he could not be saved in the Church to which he\nbelonged; that he had no such feeling; that he had no definite case\nagainst his own Church sufficient for leaving it, nor any definite view\nthat the Church of Rome was the One Church of Christ:--that still he\ncould not help suspecting that one day he should think otherwise; he\nconceived the day might come, nay would come, when he should have that\nconviction which at present he had not, and which of course would be a\ncall on him to act upon it, by leaving the Church of England for that of\nRome; he could not tell distinctly why he so anticipated, except that\nthere were so many things which he thought right in the Church of Rome,\nand so many which he thought wrong in the Church of England; and,\nbecause, too, the more he had an opportunity of hearing and seeing, the\ngreater cause he had to admire and revere the Roman Catholic system, and\nto be dissatisfied with his own. Carlton, after carefully considering\nthe case, advised him to go in for his examination. He acted thus, on\nthe one hand, as vividly feeling the changes which take place in the\nminds of young men, and the difficulty of Reding foretelling his own\nstate of opinions two years to come; and, on the other, from the\nreasonable anticipation that a contrary advice would have been the very\nway to ripen his present doubts on the untenableness of Anglicanism into\nconviction.\n\nAccordingly, his examination came off in due time; the schools were\nfull, he did well, and his class was considered to be secure. Sheffield\nfollowed soon after, and did brilliantly. The list came out; Sheffield\nwas in the first class, Charles in the second. There is always of\nnecessity a good deal of accident in these matters; but in the present\ncase reasons enough could be given to account for the unequal success of\nthe two friends. Charles had lost some time by his father's death, and\nfamily matters consequent upon it; and his virtual rustication for the\nlast six months had been a considerable disadvantage to him. Moreover,\nthough he had been a careful, persevering reader, he certainly had not\nrun the race for honours with the same devotion as Sheffield; nor had\nhis religious difficulties, particularly his late indecision about\npresenting himself at all, been without their serious influence upon his\nattention and his energy. As success had not been the first desire of\nhis soul, so failure was not his greatest misery. He would have much\npreferred success; but in a day or two he found he could well endure the\nwant of it.\n\nNow came the question about his degree, which could not be taken without\nsubscription to the Articles. Another consultation followed with\nCarlton. There was no need of his becoming a B.A. at the moment; nothing\nwould be gained by it; better that he should postpone the step. He had\nbut to go down and say nothing about it; no one would be the wiser; and\nif, at the end of six months, as Carlton sanguinely anticipated, he\nfound himself in a more comfortable frame of mind, then let him come up,\nand set all right.\n\nWhat was he to do with himself at the moment? There was little\ndifficulty here either, what to propose. He had better be reading with\nsome clergyman in the country; thus he would at once be preparing for\norders, and clearing his mind on the points which at present troubled\nhim; besides, he might thus have some opportunity for parochial duty,\nwhich would have a tranquillizing and sobering effect on his mind. As to\nthe books to which he should give his attention, of course the choice\nwould rest with the clergyman who was to guide him; but for himself\nCarlton would not recommend the usual works in controversy with Rome,\nfor which the Anglican Church was famous; rather those which are of a\npositive character, which treated subjects philosophically,\nhistorically, or doctrinally, and displayed the peculiar principles of\nthat Church; Hooker's great work, for instance; or Bull's _Defensio_ and\n_Harmonia_, or Pearson's _Vindiciae_, or Jackson on the Creed, a noble\nwork; to which Laud on Tradition might be added, though its form was\ncontroversial. Such, too, were Bingham's Antiquities, Waterland on the\nUse of Antiquity, Wall on Infant Baptism, and Palmer on the Liturgy. Nor\nought he to neglect practical and devotional authors, as Bishops Taylor,\nWilson, and Horne. The most important point remained; whither was he to\nbetake himself? did he know of any clergyman in the country who would be\nwilling to receive him as a friend and a pupil? Charles thought of\nCampbell, with whom he was on the best of terms; and Carlton knew enough\nof him by reputation, to be perfectly sure that he could not be in safer\nhands.\n\nCharles, in consequence, made the proposal to him, and it was accepted.\nNothing then remained for him but to pay a few bills, to pack up some\nbooks which he had left in a friend's room, and then to bid adieu, at\nleast for a time, to the cloisters and groves of the University. He\nquitted in June, when everything was in that youthful and fragrant\nbeauty which he had admired so much in the beginning of his residence\nthree years before.\n\n\n\n\nPart III.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\n\nBut now we must look forward, not back. Once before we took leave to\npass over nearly two years in the life of the subject of this narrative,\nand now a second and a dreary and longer interval shall be consigned to\noblivion, and the reader shall be set down in the autumn of the year\nnext but one after that in which Charles took his class and did not take\nhis degree.\n\nAt this time our interest is confined to Boughton and the Rectory at\nSutton. As to Melford, friend Bateman had accepted the incumbency of a\nchurch in a manufacturing town with a district of 10,000 souls, where he\nwas full of plans for the introduction of the surplice and gilt\ncandlesticks among his people, and where, it is to be hoped, he will\nlearn wisdom. Willis also was gone, on a different errand: he had bid\nadieu to his mother and brother soon after Charles had gone into the\nschools, and now was Father Aloysius de Sancta Cruce in the Passionist\nConvent of Pennington.\n\nOne evening, at the end of September, in the year aforesaid, Campbell\nhad called at Boughton, and was walking in the garden with Miss Reding.\n\"Really, Mary,\" he said to her, \"I don't think it does any good to keep\nhim. The best years of his life are going, and, humanly speaking, there\nis not any chance of his changing his mind, at least till he has made a\ntrial of the Church of Rome. It is quite possible that experience may\ndrive him back.\"\n\n\"It is a dreadful dilemma,\" she answered; \"how can we even indirectly\ngive him permission to take so fatal a step?\"\n\n\"He is a dear, good fellow,\" he made reply; \"he is a sterling fellow;\nall this long time that he has been with me he has made no difficulties;\nhe has read thoroughly the books that I recommended and more, and done\nwhatever I told him. You know I have employed him in the parish; he has\ntaught the Catechism to the children, and been almoner. Poor fellow, his\nhealth is suffering now: he sees there's no end of it, and hope deferred\nmakes the heart sick.\"\n\n\"It is so dreadful to give any countenance to what is so very wrong,\"\nsaid Mary.\n\n\"Why, what is to be done?\" answered Campbell; \"and we need not\ncountenance it; he can't be kept in leading-strings for ever, and there\nhas been a kind of bargain. He wanted to make a move at the end of the\nfirst year--I didn't think it worth while to fidget you about it--but I\nquieted him. We compounded in this way: he removed his name from the\ncollege-boards,--there was not the slightest chance of his ever signing\nthe Articles,--and he consented to wait another year. Now the time's\nup, and more, and he is getting impatient. So it's not we who shall be\ngiving him countenance, it will only be his leaving us.\"\n\n\"But it is so fearful,\" insisted Mary; \"and my poor mother--I declare I\nthink it will be her death.\"\n\n\"It will be a crushing blow, there's no doubt of that,\" said Campbell;\n\"what does she know of it at present?\"\n\n\"I hardly can tell you,\" answered she; \"she has been informed of it\nindeed distinctly a year ago; but seeing Charles so often, and he in\nappearance just the same, I fear she does not realize it. She has never\nspoken to me on the subject. I fancy she thinks it a scruple;\ntroublesome, certainly, but of course temporary.\"\n\n\"I must break it to her, Mary,\" said Campbell.\n\n\"Well, I think it _must_ be done,\" she replied, heaving a sudden sigh;\n\"and if so, it will be a real kindness in you to save me a task to which\nI am quite unequal. But have a talk with Charles first. When it comes to\nthe point he may have a greater difficulty than he thinks beforehand.\"\n\nAnd so it was settled; and, full of care at the double commission with\nwhich he was charged, Campbell rode back to Sutton.\n\nPoor Charles was sitting at an open window, looking out upon the\nprospect, when Campbell entered the room. It was a beautiful landscape,\nwith bold hills in the distance, and a rushing river beneath him.\nCampbell came up to him without his perceiving it; and, putting his hand\non his shoulder, asked his thoughts.\n\nCharles turned round, and smiled sadly. \"I am like Moses seeing the\nland,\" he said; \"my dear Campbell, when shall the end be?\"\n\n\"That, my good Charles, of course does not rest with me,\" answered\nCampbell.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"the year is long run out; may I go my way?\"\n\n\"You can't expect that I, or any of us, should even indirectly\ncountenance you in what, with all our love of you, we think a sin,\" said\nCampbell.\n\n\"That is as much as to say, 'Act for yourself,'\" answered Charles;\n\"well, I am willing.\"\n\nCampbell did not at once reply; then he said, \"I shall have to break it\nto your poor mother; Mary thinks it will be her death.\"\n\nCharles dropped his head on the window-sill, upon his hands. \"No,\" he\nsaid; \"I trust that she, and all of us, will be supported.\"\n\n\"So do I, fervently,\" answered Campbell; \"it will be a most terrible\nblow to your sisters. My dear fellow, should you not take all this into\naccount? Do seriously consider the actual misery you are causing for\npossible good.\"\n\n\"Do you think I have not considered it, Campbell? Is it nothing for one\nlike me to be breaking all these dear ties, and to be losing the esteem\nand sympathy of so many persons I love? Oh, it has been a most piercing\nthought; but I have exhausted it, I have drunk it out. I have got\nfamiliar with the prospect now, and am fully reconciled. Yes, I give up\nhome, I give up all who have ever known me, loved me, valued me, wished\nme well; I know well I am making myself a by-word and an outcast.\"\n\n\"Oh, my dear Charles,\" answered Campbell, \"beware of a very subtle\ntemptation which may come on you here. I have meant to warn you of it\nbefore. The greatness of the sacrifice stimulates you; you do it because\nit is so much to do.\"\n\nCharles smiled. \"How little you know me!\" he said; \"if that were the\ncase, should I have waited patiently two years and more? Why did I not\nrush forward as others have done? _You_ will not deny that I have acted\nrationally, obediently. I have put the subject from me again and again,\nand it has returned.\"\n\n\"I'll say nothing harsh or unkind of you, Charles,\" said Campbell; \"but\nit's a most unfortunate delusion. I wish I could make you take in the\nidea that there is the chance of its _being_ a delusion.\"\n\n\"Ah, Campbell, how can you forget so?\" answered Charles; \"don't you know\nthis is the very thing which has influenced me so much all along? I\nsaid, 'Perhaps I am in a dream. Oh, that I could pinch myself and\nawake!' You know what stress I laid on my change of feeling upon my dear\nfather's death; what I thought to be convictions before, vanished then\nlike a cloud. I have said to myself, 'Perhaps these will vanish too.'\nBut no; 'the clouds return after the rain;' they come again and again,\nheavier than ever. It is a conviction rooted in me; it endures against\nthe prospect of loss of mother and sisters. Here I sit wasting my days,\nwhen I might be useful in life. Why? Because this hinders me. Lately it\nhas increased on me tenfold. You will be shocked, but let me tell you\nin confidence,--lately I have been quite afraid to ride, or to bathe, or\nto do anything out of the way, lest something should happen, and I might\nbe taken away with a great duty unaccomplished. No, by this time I have\nproved that it is a real conviction. My belief in the Church of Rome is\npart of myself; I cannot act against it without acting against God.\"\n\n\"It is a most deplorable state of things certainly,\" said Campbell, who\nhad begun to walk up and down the room; \"that it is a delusion, I am\nconfident; perhaps you are to find it so, just when you have taken the\nstep. You will solemnly bind yourself to a foreign creed, and, as the\nwords part from your mouth, the mist will roll up from before your eyes,\nand the truth will show itself. How dreadful!\"\n\n\"I have thought of that too,\" said Charles, \"and it has influenced me a\ngreat deal. It has made me shrink back. But I now believe it to be like\nthose hideous forms which in fairy tales beset good knights, when they\nwould force their way into some enchanted palace. Recollect the words in\nThalaba, 'The talisman is _faith_.' If I have good grounds for\nbelieving, to believe is a duty; God will take care of His own work. I\nshall not be deserted in my utmost need. Faith ever begins with a\nventure, and is rewarded with sight.\"\n\n\"Yes, my good Charles,\" answered Campbell; \"but the question is, whether\nyour grounds _are_ good. What I mean is, that, _since_ they are _not_\ngood, they will not avail you in the trial. You will then, too late,\nfind they are not good, but delusive.\"\n\n\"Campbell,\" answered Charles, \"I consider that all reason comes from\nGod; our grounds must at best be imperfect; but if they appear to be\nsufficient after prayer, diligent search, obedience, waiting, and, in\nshort, doing our part, they are His voice calling us on. He it is, in\nthat case, who makes them seem convincing to us. I am in His hands. The\nonly question is, what would He have me to do? I cannot resist the\nconviction which is upon me. This last week it has possessed me in a\ndifferent way than ever before. It is now so strong, that to wait longer\nis to resist God. Whether I join the Catholic Church is now simply a\nquestion of days. I wish, dear Campbell, to leave you in peace and love.\nTherefore, consent; let me go.\"\n\n\"Let you go!\" answered Campbell; \"certainly, were it the Catholic Church\nto which you are going, there would be no need to ask; but 'let you go,'\nhow can you expect it from us when we do not think so? Think of our\ncase, Charles, as well as your own; throw yourself into our state of\nfeeling. For myself, I cannot deny, I never have concealed from you my\nconvictions, that the Romish Church is antichristian. She has ten\nthousand gifts, she is in many respects superior to our own; but she has\na something in her which spoils all. I have no _confidence_ in her; and,\nthat being the case, how can I 'let you go' to her? No: it's like a\nperson saying, 'Let me go and hang myself;' 'let me go sleep in a\nfever-ward;' 'let me jump into that well;'--how can I 'let you go'?\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Charles, \"that's our dreadful difference; we can't get\nfarther than that. _I_ think the Church of Rome the Prophet of God;\n_you_, the tool of the devil.\"\n\n\"I own,\" said Campbell, \"I do think that, if you take this step, you\nwill find yourself in the hands of a Circe, who will change you, make a\nbrute of you.\"\n\nCharles slightly coloured.\n\n\"I won't go on,\" added Campbell; \"I pain you; it's no good; perhaps I am\nmaking matters worse.\"\n\nNeither spoke for some time. At length Charles got up, came up to\nCampbell, took his hand, and kissed it. \"You have been a kind,\ndisinterested friend to me for two years,\" he said; \"you have given me a\nlodging under your roof; and now we are soon to be united by closer\nties. God reward you; but 'let me go, for the day breaketh.'\"\n\n\"It is hopeless!\" cried Campbell; \"let us part friends: I must break it\nto your mother.\"\n\nIn ten days after this conversation Charles was ready for his journey;\nhis room put to rights; his portmanteau strapped; and a gig at the door,\nwhich was to take him the first stage. He was to go round by Boughton;\nit had been arranged by Campbell and Mary that it would be best for him\nnot to see his mother (to whom Campbell had broken the matter at once)\ntill he took leave of her. It would be needless pain to both of them to\nattempt an interview sooner.\n\nCharles leapt from the gig with a beating heart, and ran up to his\nmother's room. She was sitting by the fire at her work when he entered;\nshe held out her hand coldly to him, and he sat down. Nothing was said\nfor a little while; then, without leaving off her occupation, she said,\n\"Well, Charles, and so you are leaving us. Where and how do you propose\nto employ yourself when you have entered upon your new life?\"\n\nCharles answered that he had not yet turned his mind to the\nconsideration of anything but the great step on which everything else\ndepended.\n\nThere was another silence; then she said, \"You won't find anywhere such\nfriends as you have had at home, Charles.\" Presently she continued, \"You\nhave had everything in your favour, Charles; you have been blessed with\ntalents, advantages of education, easy circumstances; many a deserving\nyoung man has to scramble on as he can.\"\n\nCharles answered that he was deeply sensible how much he owed in\ntemporal matters to Providence, and that it was only at His bidding that\nhe was giving them up.\n\n\"We all looked up to you, Charles; perhaps we made too much of you;\nwell, God be with you; you have taken your line.\"\n\nPoor Charles said that no one could conceive what it cost him to give up\nwhat was so very dear to him, what was part of himself; there was\nnothing on earth which he prized like his home.\n\n\"Then why do you leave us?\" she said quickly; \"you must have your way;\nyou do it, I suppose, because you like it.\"\n\n\"Oh really, my dear mother,\" cried he, \"if you saw my heart! You know in\nScripture how people were obliged in the Apostles' times to give up all\nfor Christ.\"\n\n\"We are heathens, then,\" she replied; \"thank you, Charles, I am obliged\nto you for this;\" and she dashed away a tear from her eye.\n\nCharles was almost beside himself; he did not know what to say; he stood\nup, and leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece, supporting his head on his\nhand.\n\n\"Well, Charles,\" she continued, still going on with her work, \"perhaps\nthe day will come\" ... her voice faltered; \"your dear father\" ... she\nput down her work.\n\n\"It is useless misery,\" said Charles; \"why should I stay? good-bye for\nthe present, my dearest mother. I leave you in good hands, not kinder,\nbut better than mine; you lose me, you gain another. Farewell for the\npresent; we will meet when you will, when you call; it will be a happy\nmeeting.\"\n\nHe threw himself on his knees, and laid his cheek on her lap; she could\nno longer resist him; she hung over him, and began to smooth down his\nhair as she had done when he was a child. At length scalding tears began\nto fall heavily upon his face and neck; he bore them for a while, then\nstarted up, kissed her cheek impetuously, and rushed out of the room. In\na few seconds he had seen and had torn himself from his sisters, and was\nin his gig again by the side of his phlegmatic driver, dancing slowly up\nand down on his way to Collumpton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\n\nThe reader may ask whither Charles is going, and, though it would not be\nquite true to answer that he did not know better than the said reader\nhimself, yet he had most certainly very indistinct notions what was\nbecoming of him even locally, and, like the Patriarch, \"went out, not\nknowing whither he went.\" He had never seen a Catholic priest, to know\nhim, in his life; never, except once as a boy, been inside a Catholic\nchurch; he only knew one Catholic in the world, and where he was he did\nnot know. But he knew that the Passionists had a Convent in London; and\nit was not unnatural that, without knowing whether young Father Aloysius\nwas there or not, he should direct his course to San Michaele.\n\nYet, in kindness to Mary and all of them, he did not profess to be\nleaving direct for London; but he proposed to betake himself to Carlton,\nwho still resided in Oxford, and to ask his advice what was to be done\nunder his circumstances. It seemed, too, to be interposing what they\nwould consider a last chance of averting what to them was so dismal a\ncalamity.\n\nTo Oxford, then, he directed his course; and, having some accidental\nbusiness at Bath, he stopped there for the night, intending to continue\nhis journey next morning. Among other jobs, he had to get a \"Garden of\nthe Soul,\" and two or three similar books which might help him in the\ngreat preparation which awaited his arrival in London. He went into a\nreligious publisher's in Danvers Street with that object, and while\nengaged in a back part of the shop in looking over a pile of Catholic\nworks, which, to the religious public, had inferior attractions to the\nglittering volumes, Evangelical and Anglo-Catholic, which had possession\nof the windows and principal table, he heard the shop-door open, and, on\nlooking round, saw a familiar face. It was that of a young clergyman,\nwith a very pretty girl on his arm, whom her dress pronounced to be a\nbride. Love was in their eyes, joy in their voice, and affluence in\ntheir gait and bearing. Charles had a faintish feeling come over him;\nsomewhat such as might beset a man on hearing a call for pork-chops when\nhe was sea-sick. He retreated behind a pile of ledgers and other\nstationery, but they could not save him from the low, dulcet tones which\nfrom time to time passed from one to the other.\n\n\"Have you got some of the last Oxford reprints of standard works?\" said\nthe bridegroom to the shopman.\n\n\"Yes, sir; but which set did you mean? 'Selections from Old Divines,'\nor, 'New Catholic Adaptations'?\"\n\n\"Oh, not the Adaptations,\" answered he, \"they are extremely dangerous; I\nmean real Church-of-England divinity--Bull, Patrick, Hooker, and the\nrest of them.\"\n\nThe shopman went to look them out.\n\n\"I think it was those Adaptations, dearest,\" said the lady, \"that the\nBishop warned us against.\"\n\n\"Not the Bishop, Louisa; it was his daughter.\"\n\n\"Oh, Miss Primrose, so it was,\" said she; \"and there was one book she\nrecommended, what was it?\"\n\n\"Not a book, it was a speech,\" said White; \"Mr. O'Ballaway's at Exeter\nHall; but I think we should not quite like it.\"\n\n\"No, no, Henry, it _was_ a book, dear; I can't recall the name.\"\n\n\"You mean Dr. Crow's 'New Refutation of Popery,' perhaps; but the\n_Bishop_ recommended _that_.\"\n\nThe shopman returned. \"Oh, what a sweet face!\" she said, looking at the\nfrontispiece of a little book she got hold of; \"do look, Henry; whom\ndoes it put you in mind of?\"\n\n\"Why, it's meant for St. John the Baptist,\" said Henry.\n\n\"It's so like little Angelina Primrose,\" said she, \"the hair is just\nhers. I wonder it doesn't strike you.\"\n\n\"It does--it does,\" said he, smiling at her; \"but it's getting late; you\nmust not be out much longer in the sharp air, and you have nothing for\nyour throat. I have chosen my books while you have been gazing on that\nlittle St. John.\"\n\n\"I can't think who it is so like,\" continued she; \"oh, I know; it's\nAngelina's aunt, Lady Constance.\"\n\n\"Come, Louisa, the horses too will suffer; we must return to our\nfriends.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's one book, I can't recollect it; tell me what it is, Henry.\nI shall be so sorry not to have got it.\"\n\n\"Was it the new work on Gregorian Chants?\" asked he.\n\n\"Ah, it's true, I want it for the school-children, but it's not that.\"\n\n\"Is it 'The Catholic Parsonage'?\" he asked again; \"or, 'Lays of the\nApostles'? or, 'The English Church older than the Roman'? or,\n'Anglicanism of the Early Martyrs'? or, 'Confessions of a Pervert'? or,\n'Eustace Beville'? or, 'Modified Celibacy'?\"\n\n\"No, no, no,\" said Louisa; \"dear me, it is so stupid.\"\n\n\"Well, now really, Louisa,\" he insisted, \"you must come another time; it\nwon't do, dearest; it won't do.\"\n\n\"Oh, I recollect,\" she said, \"I recollect--'Abbeys and Abbots;' I want\nto get some hints for improving the rectory-windows when we get home;\nand our church wants, you know, a porch for the poor people. The book is\nfull of designs.\"\n\nThe book was found and added to the rest, which had been already taken\nto the carriage. \"Now, Louisa,\" said White. \"Well, dearest, there's one\nmore place we must call at,\" she made answer; \"tell John to drive to\nSharp's; we can go round by the nursery--it's only a few steps out of\nthe way--I want to say a word to the man there about our greenhouse;\nthere is no good gardener in our own neighbourhood.\"\n\n\"What is the good, Louisa, now?\" said her husband; \"we shan't be at home\nthis month to come;\" and then, with due resignation, he directed the\ncoachman to the nurseryman's whom Louisa named, as he put her into the\ncarriage, and then followed her.\n\nCharles breathed freely as they went out; a severe text of Scripture\nrose on his mind, but he repressed the uncharitable feeling, and turned\nhimself to the anxious duties which lay before him.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\n\nNothing happened to Charles worth relating before his arrival at\nSteventon next day; when, the afternoon being fine, he left his\nportmanteau to follow him by the omnibus, and put himself upon the road.\nIf it required some courage to undertake by himself a long journey on an\nall-momentous errand, it did not lessen the difficulty that that journey\ntook in its way a place and a person so dear to him as Oxford and\nCarlton.\n\nHe had passed through Bagley Wood, and the spires and towers of the\nUniversity came on his view, hallowed by how many tender associations,\nlost to him for two whole years, suddenly recovered--recovered to be\nlost for ever! There lay old Oxford before him, with its hills as gentle\nand its meadows as green as ever. At the first view of that beloved\nplace he stood still with folded arms, unable to proceed. Each college,\neach church--he counted them by their pinnacles and turrets. The silver\nIsis, the grey willows, the far-stretching plains, the dark groves, the\ndistant range of Shotover, the pleasant village where he had lived with\nCarlton and Sheffield--wood, water, stone, all so calm, so bright, they\nmight have been his, but his they were not. Whatever he was to gain by\nbecoming a Catholic, this he had lost; whatever he was to gain higher\nand better, at least this and such as this he never could have again. He\ncould not have another Oxford, he could not have the friends of his\nboyhood and youth in the choice of his manhood. He mounted the\nwell-known gate on the left, and proceeded down into the plain. There\nwas no one to greet him, to sympathize with him; there was no one to\nbelieve he needed sympathy; no one to believe he had given up anything;\nno one to take interest in him, to feel tender towards him, to defend\nhim. He had suffered much, but there was no one to believe that he had\nsuffered. He would be thought to be inflicting merely, not undergoing,\nsuffering. He might indeed say that he had suffered; but he would be\nrudely told that every one follows his own will, and that if he had\ngiven up Oxford, it was for a whim which he liked better than it. But\nrather, there was no one to know him; he had been virtually three years\naway; three years is a generation; Oxford had been his place once, but\nhis place knew him no more. He recollected with what awe and transport\nhe had at first come to the University, as to some sacred shrine; and\nhow from time to time hopes had come over him that some day or other he\nshould have gained a title to residence on one of its ancient\nfoundations. One night in particular came across his memory, how a\nfriend and he had ascended to the top of one of its many towers with the\npurpose of making observations on the stars; and how, while his friend\nwas busily engaged with the pointers, he, earthly-minded youth, had\nbeen looking down into the deep, gas-lit, dark-shadowed quadrangles,\nand wondering if he should ever be Fellow of this or that College, which\nhe singled out from the mass of academical buildings. All had passed as\na dream, and he was a stranger where he had hoped to have had a home.\n\nHe was drawing near Oxford; he saw along the road before him brisk\nyouths pass, two and two, with elastic tread, finishing their modest\ndaily walk, and nearing the city. What had been a tandem a mile back,\nnext crossed his field of view, shorn of its leader. Presently a stately\ncap and gown loomed in the distance; he had gained the road before their\nowner crossed him; it was a college-tutor whom he had known a little.\nCharles expected to be recognized; but the resident passed by with that\nhalf-conscious, uncertain gaze which seemed to have some memory of a\nface which yet was strange. He had passed Folly Bridge; troops of\nhorsemen overtook him, talking loud, while with easy jaunty pace they\nturned into their respective stables. He crossed to Christ Church, and\npenetrated to Peckwater. The evening was still bright, and the gas was\nlighting. Groups of young men were stationed here and there, the greater\nnumber in hats, a few in caps, one or two with gowns in addition; some\nwere hallooing up to their companions at the windows of the second\nstory; scouts were carrying about _aeger_ dinners; pastry-cook boys were\nbringing in desserts; shabby fellows with Blenheim puppies were\nloitering under Canterbury Gate. Many stared, but no one knew him. He\nhurried up Oriel Lane; suddenly a start and a low bow from a passer-by;\nwho could it be? it was a superannuated shoeblack of his college, to\nwhom he had sometimes given a stray shilling. He gained the High Street,\nand turned down towards the Angel. What was approaching? the vision of a\nproctor. Charles felt some instinctive quiverings; but it passed by him,\nand did no harm. Like Kehama, he had a charmed life. And now he had\nreached his inn, where he found his portmanteau all ready for him. He\nchose a bedroom, and, after fully inducting himself into it, turned his\nthoughts towards dinner.\n\nHe wished to lose no time, but, if possible, to proceed to London the\nfollowing morning. It would be a great point if he could get to his\njourney's end so early in the week, that by Sunday, if he was thought\nworthy, he might offer up his praises for the mercies vouchsafed to him\nin the great and holy communion of the Universal Church. Accordingly he\ndetermined to make an attempt on Carlton that evening; and hoped, if he\nwent to his room between seven and eight, to find him returned from\nCommon-Room. With this intention he sallied out at about the half-hour,\ngained Carlton's College, knocked at the gate, entered, passed on, up\nthe worn wooden steep staircase. The oak was closed; he descended, found\na servant; \"Mr. Carlton was giving a dinner in Common-Room; it would\nsoon be over.\" Charles determined to wait for him.\n\nThe servant lighted candles in the inner room, and Charles sat down at\nthe fire. For awhile he sat in reflection; then he looked about for\nsomething to occupy him. His eye caught an Oxford paper; it was but a\nfew days old. \"Let us see how the old place goes on,\" he said to\nhimself, as he took it up. He glanced from one article to another,\nlooking who were the University-preachers of the week, who had taken\ndegrees, who were public examiners, etc., etc., when his eye was\narrested by the following paragraph:--\n\n\"DEFECTION FROM THE CHURCH.--We understand that another victim has\nlately been added to the list of those whom the venom of Tractarian\nprinciples has precipitated into the bosom of the Sorceress of Rome. Mr.\nReding, of St. Saviour's, the son of a respectable clergyman of the\nEstablishment, deceased, after eating the bread of the Church all his\nlife, has at length avowed himself the subject and slave of an Italian\nBishop. Disappointment in the schools is said to have been the\ndetermining cause of this infatuated act. It is reported that legal\nmeasures are in progress for directing the penalties of the Statute of\nPraemunire against all the seceders; and a proposition is on foot for\npetitioning her Majesty to assign the sum thereby realized by the\nGovernment to the erection of a 'Martyrs' Memorial' in the sister\nUniversity.\"\n\n\"So,\" thought Charles, \"the world, as usual, is beforehand with me;\" and\nhe sat speculating about the origin of the report till he almost forgot\nthat he was waiting for Carlton.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\n\nWhile Charles was learning in Carlton's rooms the interest which the\nworld took in his position and acts, he was actually furnishing a topic\nof conversation to that portion of it who were Carlton's guests in the\nneighbouring Common-Room. Tea and coffee had made their appearance, the\nmen had risen from table, and were crowding round the fire.\n\n\"Who is that Mr. Reding spoken of in the _Gazette_ of last week?\" said a\nprim little man, sipping his tea with his spoon, and rising on his toes\nas he spoke.\n\n\"You need not go far for an answer,\" said his neighbour, and, turning to\ntheir host, added, \"Carlton, who is Mr. Reding?\"\n\n\"A very dear honest fellow,\" answered Carlton: \"I wish we were all of us\nas good. He read with me one Long Vacation, is a good scholar, and ought\nto have gained his class. I have not heard of him for some time.\"\n\n\"He has other friends in the room,\" said another: \"I think,\" turning to\na young Fellow of Leicester, \"_you_, Sheffield, were at one time\nintimate with Reding?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" answered Sheffield; \"and Vincent, of course, knows him too; he's\na capital fellow; I know him exceedingly well; what the _Gazette_ says\nabout him is shameful. I never met a man who cared less about success in\nthe schools; it was quite his _fault_.\"\n\n\"That's about the truth,\" said another; \"I met Mr. Malcolm yesterday at\ndinner, and it seems he knows the family. He said that his religious\nnotions carried Reding away, and spoiled his reading.\"\n\nThe conversation was not general; it went on in detached groups, as the\nguests stood together. Nor was the subject a popular one; rather it was\neither a painful or a disgusting subject to the whole party, two or\nthree curious and hard minds excepted, to whom opposition to Catholicism\nwas meat and drink. Besides, in such chance collections of men, no one\nknew exactly his neighbour's opinion about it; and, as in this instance,\nthere were often friends of the accused or calumniated present. And,\nmoreover, there was a generous feeling, and a consciousness how much\nseceders from the Anglican Church were giving up, which kept down any\ndisrespectful mention of them.\n\n\"Are you to do much in the schools this term?\" said one to another.\n\n\"I don't know: we have two men going up, good scholars.\"\n\n\"Who has come into Stretton's place?\"\n\n\"Jackson, of King's.\"\n\n\"Jackson? indeed; he's strong in science, I think.\"\n\n\"Very.\"\n\n\"Our men know their books well, but I should not say that science is\ntheir line.\"\n\n\"Leicester sends four.\"\n\n\"It will be a large class-list, from what I hear.\"\n\n\"Ah! indeed! the Michaelmas paper is always a good one.\"\n\nMeanwhile the conversation was in another quarter dwelling upon poor\nCharles.\n\n\"No, depend upon it, there's more in what the _Gazette_ says than you\nthink. Disappointment is generally at the bottom of these changes.\"\n\n\"Poor devils! they can't help it,\" said another, in a low voice, to his\nneighbour.\n\n\"A good riddance, anyhow,\" said the party addressed; \"we shall have a\nlittle peace at last.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the first of the two, drawing himself up and speaking in\nthe air, \"how any educated man should--\" his voice was overpowered by\nthe grave enunciation of a small man behind them, who had hitherto kept\nsilence, and now spoke with positiveness.\n\nHe addressed himself, between the two heads which had just been talking\nin private, to the group beyond them. \"It's all the effect of\nrationalism,\" he said; \"the whole movement is rationalistic. At the end\nof three years all those persons who have now apostatized will be\ninfidels.\"\n\nNo one responded; at length another of the party came up to Mr.\nMalcolm's acquaintance, and said, slowly, \"I suppose you never heard it\nhinted that there is something wrong _here_ in Mr. Reding,\" touching his\nforehead significantly; \"I have been told it's in the family.\"\n\nHe was answered by a deep, powerful voice, belonging to a person who\nsat in the corner; it sounded like \"the great bell of Bow,\" as if it\nought to have closed the conversation. It said abruptly, \"I respect him\nuncommonly; I have an extreme respect for him. He's an honest man; I\nwish others were as honest. If they were, then, as the Puseyites are\nbecoming Catholics, so we should see old Brownside and his clique\nbecoming Unitarians. But they mean to stick in.\"\n\nMost persons present felt the truth of his remark, and a silence\nfollowed it for a while. It was broken by a clear cackling voice: \"Did\nyou ever hear,\" said he, nodding his head, or rather his whole person,\nas he spoke, \"did you ever, Sheffield, happen to hear that this\ngentleman, your friend Mr. Reding, when he was quite a freshman, had a\nconversation with some _attache_ of the Popish Chapel in this place, at\nthe very door of it, after the men were gone down?\"\n\n\"Impossible, Fusby,\" said Carlton, and laughed.\n\n\"It's quite true,\" returned Fusby; \"I had it from the Under-Marshal, who\nwas passing at the moment. My eye has been on Mr. Reding for some\nyears.\"\n\n\"So it seems,\" said Sheffield, \"for that must have been at least, let me\nsee, four or five years ago.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" continued Fusby, \"there are two or three more yet to come; you\nwill see.\"\n\n\"Why, Fusby,\" said Vincent, overhearing and coming up, \"you are like the\nthree old crones in the Bride of Lammermoor, who wished to have the\nstraiking of the Master of Ravenswood.\"\n\nFusby nodded his person, but made no answer.\n\n\"Not all three at once, I hope,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Oh, it's quite a concentration, a quintessence of Protestant feeling,\"\nanswered Vincent; \"I consider _myself_ a good Protestant; but the\npleasure you have in hunting these men is quite sensual, Fusby.\"\n\nThe Common-Room man here entered, and whispered to Carlton that a\nstranger was waiting for him in his rooms.\n\n\"When do your men come up?\" said Sheffield to Vincent.\n\n\"Next Saturday,\" answered Vincent.\n\n\"They always come up late,\" said Sheffield.\n\n\"Yes, the House met last week.\"\n\n\"St. Michael's has met too,\" said Sheffield: \"so have we.\"\n\n\"We have a reason for meeting late: many of our men come from the North\nand from Ireland.\"\n\n\"That's no reason, with railroads.\"\n\n\"I see they have begun our rail,\" said Vincent; \"I thought the\nUniversity had opposed it.\"\n\n\"The Pope in his own states has given in,\" said Sheffield, \"so we may\nwell do the same.\"\n\n\"Don't talk of the Pope,\" said Vincent, \"I'm sick of the Pope.\"\n\n\"The Pope?\" said Fusby, overhearing; \"have you heard that his Holiness\nis coming to England?\"\n\n\"Oh, oh,\" cried Vincent, \"come, I can't stand this. I must go; good\nnight t'you, Carlton. Where's my gown?\"\n\n\"I believe the Common-Room man has hung it up in the passage;--but you\nshould stop and protect me from Fusby.\"\n\nNeither did Vincent turn to the rescue, nor did Fusby profit by the\nhint; so poor Carlton, with the knowledge that he was wanted in his\nrooms, had to stay a good half-hour _tete-a-tete_ with the latter, while\nhe prosed to him _in extenso_ about Pope Sixtus XIV., the Jesuits,\nsuspected men in the University, Mede on the Apostasy, the Catholic\nRelief Bill, Dr. Pusey's Tract on Baptism, Justification, and the\nappointment of the Taylor Professors.\n\nAt length, however, Carlton was released. He ran across the quadrangle\nand up his staircase; flung open his door, and made his way to his inner\nroom. A person was just rising to meet him; impossible! but it was\nthough. \"What? Reding!\" he cried; \"who would have thought! what a\npleasure! we were just-- ... What brings you here?\" he added, in an\naltered tone. Then gravely, \"Reding, where are you?\"\n\n\"Not yet a Catholic,\" said Reding.\n\nThere was a silence; the answer conveyed a good deal: it was a relief,\nbut it was an intimation. \"Sit down, my dear Reding; will you have\nanything? have you dined? What a pleasure to see you, old fellow! Are we\nreally to lose you?\" They were soon in conversation on the great\nsubject.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\n\n\"If you have made up your mind, Reding,\" said Carlton, \"it's no good\ntalking. May you be happy wherever you are! You must always be yourself;\nas a Romanist, you will still be Charles Reding.\"\n\n\"I know I have a kind, sympathizing friend in you, Carlton. You have\nalways listened to me, never snubbed me except when I deserved it. You\nknow more about me than any one else. Campbell is a dear, good fellow,\nand will soon be dearer to me still. It isn't generally known yet, but\nhe is to marry my sister. He has borne with me now for two years; never\nbeen hard upon me; always been at my service when I wanted to talk with\nhim. But no one makes me open my heart as you do, Carlton; you sometimes\nhave differed from me, but you have always understood me.\"\n\n\"Thank you for your kind words,\" answered Carlton; \"but to me it is a\nperfect mystery why you should leave us. I enter into your reasons: I\ncannot, for the life of me, see how you come to your conclusion.\"\n\n\"To me, on the other hand, Carlton, it is like two and two make four;\nand you make two and two five, and are astonished that I won't agree\nwith you.\"\n\n\"We must leave these things to a higher power,\" said Carlton. \"I hope we\nsha'n't be less friends, Reding, when you are in another communion. We\nknow each other; these outward things cannot change us.\"\n\nReding sighed; he saw clearly that his change of religion, when\ncompleted, would not fail to have an effect on Carlton's thoughts about\nhim, as on those of others. It could not possibly be otherwise; he was\nsure himself to feel different about Carlton.\n\nAfter a while, Carlton said gently, \"Is it quite impossible, Reding,\nthat now at the eleventh hour we may retain you? what _are_ your\ngrounds?\"\n\n\"Don't let us argue, dear Carlton,\" answered Reding; \"I have done with\nargument. Or, if I must say something for manners' sake, I will but tell\nyou that I have fulfilled your request. You bade me read the Anglican\ndivines; I have given a great deal of time to them, and I am embracing\nthat creed which alone is the scope to which they converge in their\nseparate teachings; the creed which upholds the divinity of tradition\nwith Laud, consent of Fathers with Beveridge, a visible Church with\nBramhall, dogma with Bull, the authority of the Pope with Thorndike,\npenance with Taylor, prayers for the dead with Ussher, celibacy,\nasceticism, ecclesiastical discipline with Bingham. I am going to a\nChurch, which in these, and a multitude of other points, is nearer the\nApostolic Church than any existing one; which is the continuation of the\nApostolic Church, if it has been continued at all. And _seeing_ it to be\n_like_ the Apostolic Church, I _believe_ it to be the _same_. Reason has\ngone first, faith is to follow.\"\n\nHe stopped, and Carlton did not reply; a silence ensued, and Charles at\nlength broke it. \"I repeat, it's no use arguing; I have made up my mind,\nand been very slow about it. I have broken it to my mother, and bade her\nfarewell. All is determined; I cannot go back.\"\n\n\"Is that a nice feeling?\" said Carlton, half reproachfully.\n\n\"Understand me,\" answered Reding; \"I have come to my resolution with\ngreat deliberation. It has remained on my mind as a mere intellectual\nconclusion for a year or two; surely now at length without blame I may\nchange it into a practical resolve. But none of us can answer that those\nhabitual and ruling convictions, on which it is our duty to act, will\nremain before our consciousness every moment, when we come into the\nhurry of the world, and are assailed by inducements and motives of\nvarious kinds. Therefore I say that the time of argument is past; I act\non a conclusion already drawn.\"\n\n\"But how do you know,\" asked Carlton, \"but what you have been\nunconsciously biassed in arriving at it? one notion has possessed you,\nand you have not been able to shake it off. The ability to retain your\nconvictions in the bustle of life is to my mind the very test, the\nnecessary test of their reality.\"\n\n\"I do, I do retain them,\" answered Reding; \"they are always upon me.\"\n\n\"Only at times, as you have yourself confessed,\" objected Carlton:\n\"surely you ought to have a very strong conviction indeed, to set\nagainst the mischief you are doing by a step of this kind. Consider how\nmany persons you are unsettling; what a triumph you are giving to the\nenemies of all religion; what encouragement to the notion that there is\nno such thing as truth; how you are weakening our Church. Well, all I\nsay is, that you should have very strong convictions to set against all\nthis.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"I grant, I maintain, that the only motive which\nis sufficient to justify such an act, is the conviction that one's\nsalvation depends on it. Now, I speak sincerely, my dear Carlton, in\nsaying that I don't think I shall be saved if I remain in the English\nChurch.\"\n\n\"Do you mean that there is no salvation in our Church?\" said Carlton,\nrather coldly.\n\n\"I am talking of myself; it's not my place to judge others. I only say,\nGod calls _me_, and I must follow at the risk of my soul.\"\n\n\"God '_calls_' you!\" said Carlton; \"what does that mean? I don't like\nit; it's dissenting language.\"\n\n\"You know it is Scripture language,\" answered Reding.\n\n\"Yes, but people don't in Scripture _say_ 'I'm called;' the calling was\nan act from without, the act of others, not an inward feeling.\"\n\n\"But, my dear Carlton, how _is_ a person to get at truth, now, when\nthere can be no simple outward call?\"\n\n\"That seems to me a pretty good intimation,\" answered Carlton, \"that we\nare to remain where Providence has placed us.\"\n\n\"Now this is just one of the points on which I can't get at the bottom\nof the Church of England's doctrine,\" Reding replied. \"But it's so on so\nmany other subjects! it's always so. Are members of the Church of\nEngland to seek the truth, or have they it given them from the first? do\nthey seek it for themselves, or is it ready provided for them?\"\n\nCarlton thought a moment, and seemed doubtful what to answer; then he\nsaid that we must, of course, seek it. It was a part of our moral\nprobation to seek the truth.\n\n\"Then don't talk to me about our position,\" said Charles; \"I hardly\nexpected _you_ to make this answer; but it is what the majority of\nChurch-of-England people say. They tell us to seek, they give us rules\nfor seeking, they make us exert our private judgment; but directly we\ncome to any conclusion but theirs, they turn round and talk to us of our\n'providential position.' But there's another thing. Tell me, supposing\nwe ought all to seek the truth, do you think that members of the English\nChurch do seek it in that way which Scripture enjoins upon all seekers?\nThink how very seriously Scripture speaks of the arduousness of finding,\nthe labour of seeking, the duty of thirsting after the truth? I don't\nbelieve the bulk of the English clergy, the bulk of Oxford residents,\nHeads of houses, Fellows of Colleges (with all their good points, which\nI am not the man to deny), have ever sought the truth. They have taken\nwhat they found, and have used no private judgment at all. Or if they\nhave judged, it has been in the vaguest, most cursory way possible; or\nthey have looked into Scripture only to find proofs for what they were\nbound to subscribe, as undergraduates getting up the Articles. Then they\nsit over their wine, and talk about this or that friend who has\n'seceded,' and condemn him, and\" (glancing at the newspaper on the\ntable) \"assign motives for his conduct. Yet, after all, which is the\nmore likely to be right,--he who has given years, perhaps, to the search\nof truth, who has habitually prayed for guidance, and has taken all the\nmeans in his power to secure it, or they, 'the gentlemen of England who\nsit at home at ease'? No, no, they may talk of seeking the truth, of\nprivate judgment, as a duty, but they have never sought, they have never\njudged; they are where they are, not because it is true, but because\nthey find themselves there, because it is their 'providential position,'\nand a pleasant one into the bargain.\"\n\nReding had got somewhat excited; the paragraph in the newspaper had\nannoyed him. But, without taking that into account, there was enough in\nthe circumstances in which he found himself to throw him out of his\nordinary state of mind. He was in a crisis of peculiar trial, which a\nperson must have felt to understand. Few men go to battle in cold blood,\nor prepare without agitation for a surgical operation. Carlton, on the\nother hand, was a quiet, gentle person, who was not heard to use an\nexcited word once a year.\n\nThe conversation came to a stand. At length Carlton said, \"I hope, dear\nReding, you are not joining the Church of Rome merely because there are\nunreasonable, unfeeling persons in the Church of England.\"\n\nCharles felt that he was not showing to advantage, and that he was\ngiving rise to the very surmises about the motives of his conversion\nwhich he was deprecating.\n\n\"It is a sad thing,\" he said, with something of self-reproach, \"to spend\nour last minutes in wrangling. Forgive me, Carlton, if I have said\nanything too strongly or earnestly.\" Carlton thought he had; he thought\nhim in an excited state; but it was no use telling him so; so he merely\npressed his offered hand affectionately, and said nothing.\n\nPresently he said, dryly and abruptly, \"Reding, do you know any Roman\nCatholics?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Reding; \"Willis indeed, but I hav'n't seen even him these\ntwo years. It has been entirely the working of my own mind.\"\n\nCarlton did not answer at once; then he said, as dryly and abruptly as\nbefore, \"I suspect, then, you will have much to bear with when you know\nthem.\"\n\n\"What do you mean?\" asked Reding.\n\n\"You will find them under-educated men, I suspect.\"\n\n\"What do _you_ know of them?\" said Reding.\n\n\"I suspect it,\" answered Carlton.\n\n\"But what's that to the purpose?\" asked Charles.\n\n\"It's a thing you should think of. An English clergyman is a gentleman;\nyou may have more to bear than you reckon for, when you find yourself\nwith men of rude minds and vulgar manners.\"\n\n\"My dear Carlton, a'n't you talking of what you know nothing at all\nabout?\"\n\n\"Well, but you should think of it, you should contemplate it,\" said\nCarlton; \"I judge from their letters and speeches which one reads in the\npapers.\"\n\nCharles thought awhile; then he said, \"Certainly, I don't like many\nthings which are done and said by Roman Catholics just now; but I don't\nsee how all this can be more than a trial and a cross; I don't see how\nit affects the great question.\"\n\n\"No, except that you may find yourself a fish out of water,\" answered\nCarlton; \"you may find yourself in a position where you can act with no\none, where you will be quite thrown away.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"as to the fact, I know nothing about it; it may\nbe as you say, but I don't think much of your proof. In all communities\nthe worst is on the outside. What offends me in Catholic public\nproceedings need be no measure, nay, I believe cannot be a measure, of\nthe inward Catholic mind. I would not judge the Anglican Church by\nExeter Hall, nay, not by Episcopal Charges. We see the interior of our\nown Church, the exterior of the Church of Rome. This is not a fair\ncomparison.\"\n\n\"But look at their books of devotion,\" insisted Carlton; \"they can't\nwrite English.\"\n\nReding smiled at Carlton, and slowly shook his head to and fro, while he\nsaid, \"They write English, I suppose, as classically as St. John writes\nGreek.\"\n\nHere again the conversation halted, and nothing was heard for a while\nbut the simmering of the kettle.\n\nThere was no good in disputing, as might be seen from the first; each\nhad his own view, and that was the beginning and the end of the matter.\nCharles stood up. \"Well, dearest Carlton,\" he said, \"we must part; it\nmust be going on for eleven.\" He pulled out of his pocket a small\n\"Christian Year.\" \"You have often seen me with this,\" he continued,\n\"accept it in memory of me. You will not see me, but here is a pledge\nthat I will not forget you, that I will ever remember you.\" He stopped,\nmuch affected. \"Oh, it is very hard to leave you all, to go to\nstrangers,\" he went on; \"I do not wish it, but I cannot help it; I am\ncalled, I am compelled.\" He stopped again; the tears flowed down his\ncheeks. \"All is well,\" he said, recovering himself, \"all is well; but\nit's hard at the time, and scarcely any one to feel for me; black looks,\nbitter words.... I am pleasing myself, following my own will ...\nwell....\" and he began looking at his fingers and slowly rubbing his\npalms one on another. \"It must be,\" he whispered to himself, \"through\ntribulation to the kingdom, sowing in tears, reaping in joy....\" Another\npause, and a new train of thought came over him; \"Oh,\" he said, \"I fear\nso very much, so very much, that all you who do not come forward will go\nback. You cannot stand where you are; for a time you will think you do,\nthen you will oppose us, and still think you keep your ground while you\nuse the same words as before; but your belief, your opinions will\ndecline. You will hold less. And then, in time, it will strike you that,\nin differing with Protestants, you are contending only about words. They\ncall us Rationalists; take care you don't fall into Liberalism. And now,\nmy dearest Carlton, my one friend in Oxford who was patient and loving\ntowards me, good-bye. May we meet not long hence in peace and joy. I\ncannot go to you; you must come to me.\"\n\nThey embraced each other affectionately; and the next minute Charles was\nrunning down the staircase.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\n\nCharles went to bed with a bad headache, and woke with a worse. Nothing\nremained but to order his bill and be off for London. Yet he could not\ngo without taking a last farewell of the place itself. He was up soon\nafter seven; and while the gownsmen were rising and in their respective\nchapels, he had been round Magdalen Walk and Christ Church Meadow. There\nwere few or none to see him wherever he went. The trees of the Water\nWalk were variegated, as beseemed the time of year, with a thousand\nhues, arching over his head, and screening his side. He reached\nAddison's Walk; there he had been for the first time with his father,\nwhen he was coming into residence, just six years before to a day. He\npursued it, and onwards still, till he came round in sight of the\nbeautiful tower, which at length rose close over his head. The morning\nwas frosty, and there was a mist; the leaves flitted about; all was in\nunison with the state of his feelings. He re-entered the monastic\nbuildings, meeting with nothing but scouts with boxes of cinders, and\nold women carrying off the remains of the kitchen. He crossed to the\nMeadow, and walked steadily down to the junction of the Cherwell with\nthe Isis; he then turned back. What thoughts came upon him! for the last\ntime! There was no one to see him; he threw his arms round the willows\nso dear to him, and kissed them; he tore off some of their black leaves\nand put them in his bosom. \"I am like Undine,\" he said, \"killing with a\nkiss. No one cares for me; scarce a person knows me.\" He neared the Long\nWalk again. Suddenly, looking obliquely into it, he saw a cap and gown;\nhe looked anxiously; it was Jennings: there was no mistake; and his\ndirection was towards him. Charles always had felt kindly towards him,\nin spite of his sternness, but he would not meet him for the world; what\nwas he to do? he stood behind a large elm, and let him pass; then he set\noff again at a quick pace. When he had got some way, he ventured to turn\nhis head round; and he saw Jennings at the moment, by that sort of\nfatality or sympathy which is so common, turning round towards him. He\nhurried on, and soon found himself again at his inn.\n\nStrange as it may seem, though he had on the whole had as good success\nas Carlton in the \"keen encounter of their wits\" the night before, it\nhad left an unsatisfactory effect on his mind. The time for action was\ncome; argument was past, as he had himself said; and to recur to\nargument was only to confuse the clearness of his apprehension of the\ntruth. He began to question whether he really had evidence enough for\nthe step he was taking, and the temptation assailed him that he was\ngiving up this world without gaining the next. Carlton evidently thought\nhim excited; what if it were true? Perhaps his convictions were, after\nall, a dream; what did they rest upon? He tried to recall his best\narguments, and could not. Was there, after all, any such thing as truth?\nWas not one thing as good as another? At all events, could he not have\nserved God well in his generation, where he had been placed? He\nrecollected some lines in the Ethics of Aristotle, quoted by the\nphilosopher from an old poet, in which the poor outcast Philoctetes\nlaments over his own stupid officiousness, as he calls it, which had\nbeen the cause of his misfortunes. Was he not a busybody too? Why could\nhe not let well alone? Better men than he had lived and died in the\nEnglish Church. And then what if, as Campbell had said, all his\nso-called convictions were to vanish just as he entered the Roman pale,\nas they had done on his father's death? He began to envy Sheffield; all\nhad turned out well with him--a good class, a fellowship, merely or\nprincipally because he had taken things as they came, and not gone\nroaming after visions. He felt himself violently assaulted; but he was\nnot deserted, not overpowered. His good sense, rather his good Angel,\ncame to his aid; evidently he was in no way able to argue or judge at\nthat moment; the deliberate conclusions of years ought not to be set\naside by the troubled thoughts of an hour. With an effort he put the\nwhole subject from him, and addressed himself to his journey.\n\nHow he got to Steventon he hardly recollected; but gradually he came to\nhimself, and found himself in a first-class of the Great Western,\nproceeding rapidly towards London. He then looked about him to\nascertain who his fellow-travellers were. The farther compartment was\nfull of passengers, who seemed to form one party, talking together with\ngreat volubility and glee. Of the three seats in his own part of the\ncarriage, one only, that opposite to him, was filled. On taking a survey\nof the stranger, he saw a grave person passing or past the middle age;\nhis face had that worn, or rather that unplacid appearance, which even\nslight physical suffering, if habitual, gives to the features, and his\neyes were pale from study or other cause. Charles thought he had seen\nhis face before, but he could not recollect where or when. But what most\ninterested him was his dress and appearance, which was such as is rarely\nfound in a travelling-companion. It was of an unusual character, and,\ntaken together with the small office-book he held in his hand, plainly\nshowed Charles that he was opposite a Roman ecclesiastic. His heart\nbeat, and he felt tempted to start from his seat; then a sick feeling\nand a sinking came over him. He gradually grew calmer, and journeyed on\nsome time in silence, longing yet afraid to speak. At length, on the\ntrain stopping at the station, he addressed a few words to him in\nFrench. His companion looked surprised, smiled, and in a hesitating,\nsaddish voice said that he was an Englishman. Charles made an awkward\napology, and there was silence again. Their eyes sometimes met, and then\nmoved slowly off each other, as if a mutual reconnoitring was in\nprogress. At length it seemed to strike the stranger that he had\nabruptly stopped the conversation; and, after apparently beating about\nfor an introductory topic, he said, \"Perhaps I can read you, sir, better\nthan you can me. You are an Oxford man by your appearance.\"\n\nCharles assented.\n\n\"A bachelor?\" He was of near Master's standing. His companion, who did\nnot seem in a humour for talking, proceeded to various questions about\nthe University, as if out of civility. What colleges sent Proctors that\nyear? Were the Taylor Professors appointed? Were they members of the\nChurch of England? Did the new Bishop of Bury keep his Headship? &c.,\n&c. Some matter-of-fact conversation followed, which came to nothing.\nCharles had so much to ask; his thoughts were busy, and his mind full.\nHere was a Catholic priest ready for his necessities; yet the\nopportunity was likely to pass away, and nothing to come of it. After\none or two fruitless efforts, he gave it up, and leant back in his seat.\nHis fellow-traveller began, as quietly as he could, to say office. Time\nwent forward, the steam was let off and put on; the train stopped and\nproceeded, and the office was apparently finished; the book vanished in\na side-pocket.\n\nAfter a time Charles suddenly said, \"How came you to suppose I was of\nOxford?\"\n\n\"Not _entirely_ by your look and manner, for I saw you jump from the\nomnibus at Steventon; but with that assistance it was impossible to\nmistake.\"\n\n\"I have heard others say the same,\" said Charles; \"yet I can't myself\nmake out how an Oxford man should be known from another.\"\n\n\"Not only Oxford men, but Cambridge men, are known by their appearance;\nsoldiers, lawyers, beneficed clergymen; indeed every class has its\nexternal indications to those who can read them.\"\n\n\"I know persons,\" said Charles, \"who believe that handwriting is an\nindication of calling and character.\"\n\n\"I do not doubt it,\" replied the priest; \"the gait is another; but it is\nnot all of us who can read so recondite a language. Yet a language it\nis, as really as hieroglyphics on an obelisk.\"\n\n\"It is a fearful thought,\" said Charles with a sigh, \"that we, as it\nwere, exhale ourselves every breath we draw.\"\n\nThe stranger assented; \"A man's moral self,\" he said, \"is concentrated\nin each moment of his life; it lives in the tips of his fingers, and the\nspring of his insteps. A very little thing tries what a man is made of.\"\n\n\"I think I must be speaking to a Catholic priest?\" said Charles: when\nhis question was answered in the affirmative, he went on hesitatingly to\nask if what they had been speaking of did not illustrate the importance\nof faith? \"One did not see at first sight,\" he said, \"how it was\nrational to maintain that so much depended on holding this or that\ndoctrine, or a little more or a little less, but it might be a test of\nthe heart.\"\n\nHis companion looked pleased; however, he observed, that \"there was no\n'more or less' in faith; that either we believed the whole revealed\nmessage, or really we believed no part of it; that we ought to believe\nwhat the Church proposed to us on the _word_ of the Church.\"\n\n\"Yet surely the so-called Evangelical believes more than the Unitarian,\nand the High-Churchman than the Evangelical,\" objected Charles.\n\n\"The question,\" said his fellow-traveller, \"is, whether they submit\ntheir reason implicitly to that which they have received as God's word.\"\n\nCharles assented.\n\n\"Would you say, then,\" he continued, \"that the Unitarian really believes\nas God's word that which he professes to receive, when he passes over\nand gets rid of so much that is in that word?\"\n\n\"Certainly not,\" said Charles.\n\n\"And why?\"\n\n\"Because it is plain,\" said Charles, \"that his ultimate standard of\ntruth is not the Scripture, but, unconsciously to himself, some view of\nthings in his mind which is to him the measure of Scripture.\"\n\n\"Then he believes himself, if we may so speak,\" said the priest, \"and\nnot the external word of God.\"\n\n\"Certainly.\"\n\n\"Well, in like manner,\" he continued, \"do you think a person can have\nreal faith in that which he admits to be the word of God, who passes by,\nwithout attempting to understand, such passages as 'the Church the\npillar and ground of the truth;' or, 'whosesoever sins ye forgive, they\nare forgiven;' or, 'if any man is sick, let him call for the priests of\nthe Church, and let them anoint him with oil'?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Charles; \"but, in fact, _we_ do not profess to have faith in\nthe mere text of Scripture. You know, sir,\" he added hesitatingly, \"that\nthe Anglican doctrine is to interpret Scripture by the Church; therefore\nwe have faith, like Catholics, not in Scripture simply, but in the whole\nword committed to the Church, of which Scripture is a part.\"\n\nHis companion smiled: \"How many,\" he asked, \"so profess? But, waiving\nthis question, I understand what a Catholic means by saying that he goes\nby the voice of the Church; it means, practically, by the voice of the\nfirst priest he meets. Every priest is the voice of the Church. This is\nquite intelligible. In matters of doctrine, he has faith in the word of\nany priest. But what, where, is that 'word' of the Church which the\npersons you speak of believe in? and when do they exercise their belief?\nIs it not an undeniable fact, that, so far from all Anglican clergymen\nagreeing together in faith, what the first says, the second will unsay?\nso that an Anglican cannot, if he would, have faith in them, and\nnecessarily, though he would not, chooses between them. How, then, has\nfaith a place in the religion of an Anglican?\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"I am sure I know a good many persons--and if you\nknew the Church of England as I do, you would not need me to tell\nyou--who, from knowledge of the Gospels, have an absolute conviction and\nan intimate sense of the reality of the sacred facts contained in them,\nwhich, whether you call it faith or not, is powerful enough to colour\ntheir whole being with its influence, and rules their heart and conduct\nas well as their imagination. I can't believe that these persons are\nout of God's favour; yet, according to your account of the matter, they\nhave not faith.\"\n\n\"Do you think these persons believe and practise all that is brought\nhome to them as being in Scripture?\" asked his companion.\n\n\"Certainly they do,\" answered Charles, \"as far as man can judge.\"\n\n\"Then perhaps they may be practising the virtue of faith; if there are\npassages in it to which they are insensible, as about the sacraments,\npenance, and extreme unction, or about the See of Peter, I should in\ncharity think that these passages had never been brought home or applied\nto their minds and consciences--just as a Pope's Bull may be for a time\nunknown in a distant part of the Church. They may be[1] in involuntary\nignorance. Yet I fear that, taking the whole nation, there are few who\non this score can lay claim to faith.\"\n\n    [1] \"Errantes invincibiliter circa aliquos articulos, et\n    credentes alios, non sunt formaliter haeretici, sed habent fidem\n    supernaturalem, qua credunt veros articulos, atque adeo ex ea\n    possunt procedere actus perfectae contritionis, quibus justificentur\n    et salventur.\"--_De Lugo de Fid._, p. 169.\n\nCharles said this did not fully meet the difficulty; faith, in the case\nof these persons, at least was not faith in the word of the Church. His\ncompanion would not allow this; he said they received the Scripture on\nthe testimony of the Church, that at least they were believing the word\nof God, and the like.\n\nPresently Charles said, \"It is to me a great mystery how the English\npeople, as a whole, is ever to have faith again; is there evidence\nenough for faith?\"\n\nHis new friend looked surprised and not over-pleased; \"Surely,\" he said,\n\"in matter of fact, a man may have more _evidence_ for believing the\nChurch to be the messenger of God, than he has for believing the four\nGospels to be from God. If, then, he already believes the latter, why\nshould he not believe the former?\"\n\n\"But the belief in the Gospels is a traditional belief,\" said Charles;\n\"that makes all the difference. I cannot see how a nation like England,\nwhich has lost the faith, ever can recover it. Hence, in the matter of\nconversion, Providence has generally visited simple and barbarous\nnations.\"\n\n\"The converts of the Roman Empire were, I suppose, a considerable\nexception,\" said the priest.\n\n\"Still, it seems to me a great difficulty,\" answered Charles; \"I do not\nsee, when the dogmatic structure is once broken down, how it is ever to\nbe built up again. I fancy there is a passage somewhere in Carlyle's\n'French Revolution' on the subject, in which the author laments over the\nmadness of men's destroying what they could not replace, what it would\ntake centuries and a strange combination of fortunate circumstances to\nreproduce, an external received creed. I am not denying, God forbid! the\nobjectivity of revelation, or saying that faith is a sort of happy and\nexpedient delusion; but, really, the evidence for revealed doctrine is\nso built up on probabilities that I do not see what is to introduce it\ninto a civilized community, where reason has been cultivated to the\nutmost, and argument is the test of truth. Many a man will say, 'Oh,\nthat I had been educated a Catholic!' but he has not so been; and he\nfinds himself unable, though wishing, to believe, for he has not\nevidence enough to subdue his reason. What is to make him believe?\"\n\nHis fellow-traveller had for some time shown signs of uneasiness; when\nCharles stopped, he said, shortly, but quietly, \"What is to make him\nbelieve! the _will_, his _will_.\"\n\nCharles hesitated; he proceeded; \"If there is evidence enough to believe\nScripture, and we see that there is, I repeat, there is more than enough\nto believe the Church. The evidence is not in fault; all it requires is\nto be brought home or applied to the mind; if belief does not then\nfollow, the fault lies with the will.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Charles, \"I think there is a general feeling among educated\nAnglicans, that the claims of the Roman Church do not rest on a\nsufficiently intellectual basis; that the evidences, or notes, were well\nenough for a rude age, not for this. This is what makes me despair of\nthe growth of Catholicism.\"\n\nHis companion looked round curiously at him, and then said, quietly,\n\"Depend upon it, there is quite evidence enough for a _moral conviction_\nthat the Catholic or Roman Church, and none other, is the voice of God.\"\n\n\"Do you mean,\" said Charles, with a beating heart, \"that before\nconversion one can attain to a present abiding actual conviction of this\ntruth?\"\n\n\"I do not know,\" answered the other; \"but, at least, he may have\nhabitual _moral certainty_; I mean, a conviction, and one only, steady,\nwithout rival conviction, or even reasonable doubt, present to him when\nhe is most composed and in his hours of solitude, and flashing on him\nfrom time to time, as through clouds, when he is in the world;--a\nconviction to this effect, 'The Roman Catholic Church is the one only\nvoice of God, the one only way of salvation.'\"\n\n\"Then you mean to say,\" said Charles, while his heart beat faster, \"that\nsuch a person is under no duty to wait for clearer light.\"\n\n\"He will not have, he cannot expect, clearer light before conversion.\nCertainty, in its highest sense, is the reward of those who, by an act\nof the will, and at the dictate of reason and prudence, embrace the\ntruth, when nature, like a coward, shrinks. You must make a venture;\nfaith is a venture before a man is a Catholic; it is a gift after it.\nYou approach the Church in the way of reason, you enter into it in the\nlight of the Spirit.\"\n\nCharles said that he feared there was a great temptation operating on\nmany well-informed and excellent men, to find fault with the evidence\nfor Catholicity, and to give over the search, on the excuse that there\nwere arguments on both sides.\n\n\"It is not one set of men,\" answered his companion; \"it is the grievous\ndeficiency in Englishmen altogether. Englishmen have many gifts, faith\nthey have not. Other nations, inferior to them in many things, still\nhave faith. Nothing will stand in place of it; not a sense of the beauty\nof Catholicism, or of its awfulness, or of its antiquity; not an\nappreciation of the sympathy which it shows towards sinners: not an\nadmiration of the Martyrs and early Fathers, and a delight in their\nwritings. Individuals may display a touching gentleness, or a\nconscientiousness which demands our reverence; still, till they have\nfaith, they have not the foundation, and their superstructure will fall.\nThey will not be blessed, they will effect nothing in religious matters,\ntill they begin by an act of unreserved faith in the word of God,\nwhatever it be; till they go out of themselves; till they cease to make\nsomething within them their standard, till they oblige their will to\nperfect what reason leaves sufficient, indeed, but incomplete. And when\nthey shall recognize this defect in themselves, and try to remedy it,\nthen they will recognize much more;--they will be on the road very\nshortly to be Catholics.\"\n\nThere was nothing in all this exactly new to Reding; but it was pleasant\nto hear it from the voice of another, and him a priest. Thus he had\nsympathy and authority, and felt he was restored to himself. The\nconversation stopped. After a while he disclosed to his new friend the\nplace for which he was bound, which, after what Charles had already been\nsaying, could be no great surprise to him. The latter knew the Superior\nof San Michaele, and, taking out a card, wrote upon it a few words of\nintroduction for him. By this time they had reached Paddington; and\nscarcely had the train stopped, when the priest took his small\ncarpet-bag from under his seat, wrapped his cloak around him, stepped\nout of the carriage, and was walking out of sight at a brisk pace.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\n\nReding naturally wished to take the important step he was meditating as\nquietly as he could; and had adopted what he considered satisfactory\nmeasures for this purpose. But such arrangements often turn out very\ndifferently from their promise; and so it was in his case.\n\nThe Passionist House was in the eastern part of London; so far\nwell;--and as he knew in the neighbourhood a respectable publisher in\nthe religious line, with whom his father had dealt, he had written to\nhim to bespeak a room in his house for the few days which he trusted\nwould suffice for the process of his reception. What was to happen to\nhim after it, he left for the advice he might get from those in whose\nhands he found himself. It was now Wednesday; he hoped to have two days\nto prepare himself for his confession, and then he proposed to present\nhimself before those who were to receive it. His better plan would have\nbeen to have gone to the Religious House at once, where doubtless the\ngood fathers would have lodged him, secured him from intrusion, and\ngiven him the best advice how to proceed. But we must indulge him, if,\ndoing so great a work, he likes to do it in his own way; nor must we be\nhard on him, though it be not the best way.\n\nOn arriving at his destination, he saw in the deportment of his host\ngrounds for concluding that his coming was not only expected, but\nunderstood. Doubtless, then, the paragraph of the _Oxford Gazette_ had\nbeen copied into the London papers; nor did it relieve his unpleasant\nsurprise to find, as he passed to his room, that the worthy bibliopolist\nhad a reading-room attached to his shop, which was far more perilous to\nhis privacy than a coffee-room would have been. He was not obliged,\nhowever, to mix with the various parties who seemed to frequent it; and\nhe determined as far as possible to confine himself to his apartment.\nThe rest of the day he employed in writing letters to friends: his\nconversation of the morning had tranquillized him; he went to bed\npeaceful and happy, slept soundly, rose late, and, refreshed in mind and\nbody, turned his thoughts to the serious duties of the day.\n\nBreakfast over, he gave a considerable time to devotional exercises, and\nthen, opening his writing-desk, addressed himself to his work. Hardly\nhad he got into it when his landlord made his appearance; and, with many\napologies for his intrusion, and a hope that he was not going to be\nimpertinent, proceeded to inquire if Mr. Reding was a Catholic. \"The\nquestion had been put to him, and he thought he might venture to solicit\nan answer from the person who could give the most authentic\ninformation.\" Here was an interruption, vexatious in itself, and\nperplexing in the form in which it came upon him; it would be absurd to\nreply that he was on the point of _becoming_ a Catholic, so he shortly\nanswered in the negative. Mr. Mumford then informed him that there were\ntwo friends of Mr. Reding's below, who wished very much to have a few\nminutes' conversation with him. Charles could make no intelligible\nobjection to the request; and in the course of a few minutes their knock\nwas heard at the room-door.\n\nOn his answering it, two persons presented themselves, apparently both\nstrangers to him. This, however, at the moment was a relief; for vague\nfears and surmises had begun to flit across his mind as to the faces\nwhich were to make their appearance. The younger of the two, who had\nround full cheeks, with a boyish air, and a shrill voice, advanced\nconfidently, and seemed to expect a recognition. It broke upon Charles\nthat he had seen him before, but he could not tell where. \"I ought to\nknow your face,\" he said.\n\n\"Yes, Mr. Reding,\" answered the person addressed, \"you may recollect me\nat College.\"\n\n\"Ah, I remember perfectly,\" said Reding; \"Jack the kitchen-boy at St.\nSaviour's.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Jack; \"I came when young Tom was promoted into Dennis's\nplace.\"\n\nThen he added, with a solemn shake of the head, \"_I_ have got promotion\nnow.\"\n\n\"So it seems, Jack,\" answered Reding; \"but what are you? Speak.\"\n\n\"Ah, sir,\" said Jack, \"we must converse in a tone of befitting\nseriousness;\" and he added, in a deep inarticulate voice, his lips not\nbeing suffered to meet together, \"Sir, I stand next to an Angel now.\"\n\n\"A what? Angel? Oh, I know,\" cried Charles, \"it's some sect; the\nSandemanians.\"\n\n\"Sandemanians!\" interrupted Jack; \"we hold them in abhorrence; they are\nlevellers; they bring in disorder and every evil work.\"\n\n\"I beg pardon, but I know it is some sect, though I don't recollect\nwhat. I've heard about it. Well, tell me, Jack, what are you?\"\n\n\"I am,\" answered Jack, as if he were confessing at the tribunal of a\nPropraetor, \"I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church.\"\n\n\"That's right, Jack,\" said Reding; \"but it's not distinctive enough; so\nare we all; every one will say as much.\"\n\n\"Hear me out, Mr. Reding, sir,\" answered Jack, waving his hand; \"hear\nme, but strike; I repeat, I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church,\nassembling in Huggermugger Lane.\"\n\n\"Ah,\" said Charles, \"I see; that's what the 'gods' call you; now, what\ndo men?\"\n\n\"Men,\" said Jack, not understanding, however, the allusion--\"men call us\nChristians, professing the opinions of the late Rev. Edward Irving,\nB.D.\"\n\n\"I understand perfectly now,\" said Reding; \"Irvingites--I recollect.\"\n\n\"No, sir,\" he said, \"not Irvingites; we do not follow man; we follow\nwherever the Spirit leads us; we have given up Tongue. But I ought to\nintroduce you to my friend, who is more than an Angel,\" he proceeded\nmodestly, \"who has more than the tongue of men and angels, being nothing\nshort of an Apostle, sir. Mr. Reding, here's the Rev. Alexander\nHighfly. Mr. Highfly, this is Mr. Reding.\"\n\nMr. Highfly was a man of gentlemanlike appearance and manner; his\nlanguage was refined, and his conduct was delicate; so much so that\nCharles at once changed his tone in speaking to him. He came to Mr.\nReding, he said, from a sense of duty; and there was nothing in his\nconversation to clash with that profession. He explained that he had\nheard of Mr. Reding's being unsettled in his religious views, and he\nwould not lose the opportunity of attempting so valuable an accession to\nthe cause to which he had dedicated himself.\n\n\"I see,\" said Charles, smiling, \"I am in the market.\"\n\n\"It is the bargain of Glaucus with Diomede,\" answered Mr. Highfly, \"for\nwhich I am asking your co-operation. I am giving you the fellowship of\nApostles.\"\n\n\"It is, I recollect, one of the characteristics of your body,\" said\nCharles, \"to have an order of Apostles, in addition to Bishops, Priests,\nand Deacons.\"\n\n\"Rather,\" said his visitor, \"it is the special characteristic; for we\nacknowledge the orders of the Church of England. We are but completing\nthe Church system by restoring the Apostolic College.\"\n\n\"What I should complain of,\" said Charles, \"were I at all inclined to\nlisten to your claims, would be the very different views which different\nmembers of your body put forward.\"\n\n\"You must recollect, sir,\" answered Mr. Highfly, \"that we are under\nDivine teaching, and that truth is but gradually communicated to the\nChurch. We do not pledge ourselves what we shall believe to-morrow by\nanything we say to-day.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" answered Reding, \"things have been said to me by your\nteachers which I must suppose were only private opinions, though they\nseemed to be more.\"\n\n\"But I was saying,\" said Mr. Highfly, \"that at present we are restoring\nthe Gentile Apostolate. The Church of England has Bishops, Priests, and\nDeacons, but a Scriptural Church has more; it is plain it ought to have\nApostles. In Scripture Apostles had the supreme authority, and the three\nAnglican orders were but subordinate to them.\"\n\n\"I am disposed to agree with you there,\" said Charles. Mr. Highfly\nlooked surprised and pleased. \"We are restoring,\" he said, \"the Church\nto a more Scriptural state; perhaps, then, we may reckon on your\nco-operation in doing so? We do not ask you to secede from the\nEstablishment, but to acknowledge the Apostolic authority to which all\nought to submit.\"\n\n\"But does it not strike you, Mr. Highfly,\" answered Reding, \"that there\n_is_ a body of Christians, and not an inconsiderable one, which\nmaintains with you, and, what is more, has always preserved, that true\nand higher Apostolic succession in the Church; a body, I mean, which, in\naddition to Episcopacy, believes that there is a standing ordinance\nabove Episcopacy, and gives it the name of the Apostolate?\"\n\n\"On the contrary,\" answered Mr. Highfly, \"I consider that we are\nrestoring what has lain dormant ever since the time of St. Paul; nay, I\nwill say it is an ordinance which never has been carried into effect at\nall, though it was in the Divine design from the first. You will observe\nthat the Apostles were Jews; but there never has been a Gentile\nApostolate. St. Paul indeed was Apostle of the Gentiles, but the design\nbegun in him has hitherto been frustrated. He went up to Jerusalem\nagainst the solemn warning of the Spirit; now we are raised up to\ncomplete that work of the Spirit, which was stopped by the inadvertence\nof the first Apostle.\"\n\nJack interposed: he should be very glad, he said, to know what religious\npersuasion it was, besides his own, which Mr. Reding considered to have\npreserved the succession of Apostles as something distinct from Bishops.\n\n\"It is quite plain whom I mean--The Catholics,\" answered Charles. \"The\nPopedom is the true Apostolate, the Pope is the successor of the\nApostles, particularly of St. Peter.\"\n\n\"We are very well inclined to the Roman Catholics,\" answered Mr.\nHighfly, with some hesitation; \"we have adopted a great part of their\nritual; but we are not accustomed to consider that we resemble them in\nwhat is our characteristic and cardinal tenet.\"\n\n\"Allow me to say it, Mr. Highfly,\" said Reding, \"it is a reason why\nevery Irvingite--I mean every member of your denomination--should become\na Catholic. Your own religious sense has taught you that there ought to\nbe an Apostolate in the Church. You consider that the authority of the\nApostles was not temporary, but essential and fundamental. What that\nauthority was, we see in St. Paul's conduct towards St. Timothy. He\nplaced him in the see of Ephesus, he sent him a charge, and, in fact, he\nwas his overseer or Bishop. He had the care of all the Churches. Now,\nthis is precisely the power which the Pope claims, and has ever claimed;\nand, moreover, he has claimed it, as being the _successor_, and the sole\nproper successor of the Apostles, though Bishops may be improperly such\nalso.[2] And hence Catholics call him Vicar of Christ, Bishop of\nBishops, and the like; and, I believe, consider that he, in a\npre-eminent sense, is the one pastor or ruler of the Church, the source\nof jurisdiction, the judge of controversies, and the centre of unity, as\nhaving the powers of the Apostles, and specially of St. Peter.\"\n\n    [2] \"Successores sunt, sed ita ut potius Vicarii dicendi sint\n    Apostolorum, quam successores; contra, Romanus Pontifex, quia verus\n    Petri successor est, nonnisi per quendam abusum ejus vicarius\n    diceretur.\"--Zaccar. _Antifebr._, p. 130.\n\nMr. Highfly kept silence.\n\n\"Don't you think, then, it would be well,\" continued Charles, \"that,\nbefore coming to convert me, you should first join the Catholic Church?\nat least, you would urge your doctrine upon me with more authority if\nyou came as a member of it. And I will tell you frankly, that you would\nfind it easier to convert me to Catholicism than to your present\npersuasion.\"\n\nJack looked at Mr. Highfly, as if hoping for some decisive reply to what\nwas a new view to him; but Mr. Highfly took a different line. \"Well,\nsir,\" he said, \"I do not see that any good will come by our continuing\nthe interview; but your last remark leads me to observe that\n_proselytism_ was not our object in coming here. We did not propose more\nthan to _inform_ you that a great work was going on, to direct your\nattention to it, and to invite your co-operation. We do not controvert;\nwe only wish to deliver our testimony, and there to leave the matter. I\nbelieve, then, we need not take up your valuable time longer.\" With that\nhe got up, and Jack with him, and, with many courteous bows and smiles,\nwhich were duly responded to by Reding, the two visitors took their\ndeparture.\n\n\"Well, I might have been worse off,\" thought Reding; \"really they are\ngentle, well-mannered creatures, after all. I might have been attacked\nby some of your furious Exeter-Hall beasts; but now to business....\nWhat's that?\" he added. Alas, it was a soft, distinct tap at the door;\nthere was no mistake. \"Who's there? come in!\" he cried; upon which the\ndoor gently opened, and a young lady, not without attractions of person\nand dress, presented herself. Charles started up with vexation; but\nthere was no help for it, and he was obliged to hand her a chair, and\nthen to wait, all expectation, or rather all impatience, to be informed\nof her mission. For a while she did not speak, but sat, with her head on\none side, looking at her parasol, the point of which she fixed on the\ncarpet, while she slowly described a circumference with the handle. At\nlength she asked, without raising her eyes, whether it was true--and she\nspoke slowly and in what is called a spiritual tone--whether it was\ntrue, the information had been given her, that Mr. Reding, the\ngentleman she had the honour of addressing--whether it was true, that he\nwas in search of a religion more congenial to his feelings than that of\nthe Church of England? \"Mr. Reding could not give her any satisfaction\non the subject of her inquiry;\"--he answered shortly, and had some\ndifficulty in keeping from rudeness in his tone. The interrogation, she\nwent on to say, perhaps might seem impertinent; but she had a motive.\nSome dear sisters of hers were engaged in organizing a new religious\nbody, and Mr. Reding's accession, counsel, assistance, would be\nparticularly valuable; the more so, because as yet they had not any\ngentleman of University education among them.\n\n\"May I ask,\" said Charles, \"the name of the intended persuasion?\"\n\n\"The name,\" she answered, \"is not fixed; indeed, this is one of the\npoints on which we should covet the privilege of the advice of a\ngentleman so well qualified as Mr. Reding to assist us in our\ndeliberations.\"\n\n\"And your tenets, ma'am?\"\n\n\"Here, too,\" she replied, \"there is much still to be done; the tenets\nare not fixed either, that is, they are but sketched; and we shall prize\nyour suggestions much. Nay, you will of course have the opportunity, as\nyou would have the right, to nominate any doctrine to which you may be\nespecially inclined.\"\n\nCharles did not know how to answer to so liberal an offer.\n\nShe continued: \"Perhaps it is right, Mr. Reding, that I should tell you\nsomething more about myself personally. I was born in the communion of\nthe Church of England; for a while I was a member of the New Connexion;\nand after that,\" she added, still with drooping head and languid\nsing-song voice, \"after that, I was a Plymouth brother.\" It got too\nabsurd; and Charles, who had for an instant been amused, now became full\nof the one thought, how to get her out of the room.\n\nIt was obviously left to her to keep up the conversation: so she said\npresently, \"We are all for a pure religion.\"\n\n\"From what you tell me,\" said Charles, \"I gather that every member of\nyour new community is allowed to name one or two doctrines of his own.\"\n\n\"We are all scriptural,\" she made answer, \"and therefore are all one; we\nmay differ, but we agree. Still it is so, as you say, Mr. Reding. I'm\nfor election and assurance; our dearest friend is for perfection; and\nanother sweet sister is for the second advent. But we desire to include\namong us all souls who are thirsting after the river of life, whatever\ntheir personal views. I believe you are partial to sacraments and\nceremonies?\"\n\nCharles tried to cut short the interview by denying that he had any\nreligion to seek after, or any decision to make; but it was easier to\nend the conversation than the visit. He threw himself back in his chair\nin despair, and half closed his eyes. \"Oh, those good Irvingites,\" he\nthought, \"blameless men, who came only to protest, and vanished at the\nfirst word of opposition; but now thrice has the church-clock struck the\nquarters since her entrance, and I don't see why she's not to stop here\nas long as it goes on striking, since she has stopped so long. She has\nnot in her the elements of progress and decay. She'll never die; what is\nto become of me?\"\n\nNor was she doomed to find a natural death; for, when the case seemed\nhopeless, a noise was heard on the staircase, and, with scarcely the\napology for a knock, a wild gawky man made his appearance, and at once\ncried out, \"I hope, sir, it's not a bargain yet; I hope it's not too\nlate; discharge this young woman, Mr. Reding, and let me teach you the\nold truth, which never has been repealed.\"\n\nThere was no need of discharging her; for as kindly as she had unfolded\nher leaves and flourished in the sun of Reding's forbearance, so did she\nat once shrink and vanish--one could hardly tell how--before the rough\naccents of the intruder; and Charles suddenly found himself in the hands\nof a new tormentor. \"This is intolerable,\" he said to himself; and,\njumping up, he cried, \"Sir, excuse me, I am particularly engaged this\nmorning, and I must beg to decline the favour of your visit.\"\n\n\"What did you say, sir?\" said the stranger; and, taking a note-book and\na pencil from his pocket, he began to look up in Charles's face and\nwrite down his words, saying half aloud, as he wrote, \"Declines the\nfavour of my visit.\" Then he looked up again, keeping his pencil upon\nhis paper, and said, \"Now, sir.\"\n\nReding moved towards him, and, spreading his arms as one drives sheep\nand poultry in one direction, he repeated, looking towards the door,\n\"Really, sir, I feel the honour of your call; but another day, sir,\nanother day. It is too much, too much.\"\n\n\"Too much?\" said the intruder; \"and I waiting below so long! That dainty\nlady has been good part of an hour here, and now you can't give me five\nminutes, sir.\"\n\n\"Why, sir,\" answered Charles, \"I am sure you are come on an errand as\nfruitless as hers; and I am sick of these religious discussions, and\nwant to be to myself, and to save you trouble.\"\n\n\"Sick of religions discussions,\" said the stranger to himself, as he\nwrote down the words in his note-book. Charles did not deign to notice\nhis act or to explain his own expression; he stood prepared to renew his\naction of motioning him to the door. His tormentor then said, \"You may\nlike to know my name; it is Zerubbabel.\"\n\nVexed as Reding was, he felt that he had no right to visit the\ntediousness of his former visitor upon his present; so he forced himself\nto reply, \"Zerubbabel; indeed; and is Zerubbabel your Christian name,\nsir, or your surname?\"\n\n\"It is both at once, Mr. Reding,\" answered Zerubbabel, \"or rather, I\nhave no Christian name, and Zerubbabel is my one Jewish designation.\"\n\n\"You are come, then, to inquire whether I am likely to become a Jew.\"\n\n\"Stranger things have happened,\" answered his visitor; \"for instance, I\nmyself was once a deacon in the Church of England.\"\n\n\"Then you are not a Jew?\" said Charles.\n\n\"I am a Jew by choice,\" he said; \"after much prayer and study of\nScripture, I have come to the conclusion that, as Judaism was the first\nreligion, so it's to be the last. Christianity I consider an episode in\nthe history of revelation.\"\n\n\"You are not likely to have many followers in such a belief,\" said\nCharles; \"we are all for progress now, not for retrograding.\"\n\n\"I differ from you, Mr. Reding,\" said Zerubbabel; \"see what the\nEstablishment is doing; it has sent a Bishop to Jerusalem.\"\n\n\"That is rather with the view of making the Jews Christians than the\nChristians Jews,\" said Reding.\n\nZerubbabel wrote down: \"Thinks Bishop of Jerusalem is to convert the\nJews;\" then, \"I differ from you, sir; on the contrary, I fancy the\nexcellent Bishop has in view to revive the distinction between Jew and\nGentile, which is one step towards the supremacy of the former; for if\nthe Jews have a place at all in Christianity, as Jews, it must be the\nfirst place.\"\n\nCharles thought he had better let him have his talk out; so Zerubbabel\nproceeded: \"The good Bishop in question knows well that the Jew is the\nelder brother of the Gentile, and it is his special mission to restore a\nJewish episcopate to the See of Jerusalem. The Jewish succession has\nbeen suspended since the time of the Apostles. And now you see the\nreason of my calling on you, Mr. Reding. It is reported that you lean\ntowards the Catholic Church; but I wish to suggest to you that you have\nmistaken the centre of unity. The See of James at Jerusalem is the true\ncentre, not the See of Peter at Rome. Peter's power is a usurpation on\nJames's. I consider the present Bishop of Jerusalem the true Pope. The\nGentiles have been in power too long; it is now the Jews' turn.\"\n\n\"You seem to allow,\" said Charles, \"that there ought to be a centre of\nunity and a Pope.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" said Zerubbabel, \"and a ritual too, but it should be the\nJewish. I am collecting subscriptions for the rebuilding of the Temple\non Mount Moriah; I hope too to negotiate a loan, and we shall have\nTemple stock, yielding, I calculate, at least four per cent.\"\n\n\"It has hitherto been thought a sin,\" said Reding, \"to attempt\nrebuilding the Temple. According to you, Julian the Apostate went the\nbetter way to work.\"\n\n\"His motive was wrong, sir,\" answered the other; \"but his act was good.\nThe way to convert the Jews is, first to accept their rites. This is one\nof the greatest discoveries of this age. _We_ must make the first step\ntowards _them_. For myself, I have adopted all which the present state\nof their religion renders possible. And I don't despair to see the day\nwhen bloody sacrifices will be offered on the Temple Mount as of old.\"\n\nHere he came to a pause; and Charles making no reply, he said, in a\nbrisk, off-hand manner, \"May I not hope you will give your name to this\nreligious object, and adopt the old ritual? The Catholic is quite of\nyesterday compared with it.\" Charles answering in the negative,\nZerubbabel wrote down in his book: \"Refuses to take part in our scheme;\"\nand disappeared from the room as suddenly as he entered it.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\n\nCharles's trials were not at an end; and we suspect the reader will give\na shudder at the news, as having a very material share in the\ninfliction. Yet the reader's case has this great alleviation, that he\ntakes up this narrative in an idle hour, and Charles encountered the\nreality in a very busy and anxious one. So, however, it was: not any\ngreat time elapsed after the retreat of Zerubbabel, when his landlord\nagain appeared at the door. He assured Mr. Reding that it was no fault\nof his that the last two persons had called on him; that the lady had\nslipped by him, and the gentleman had forced his way; but that he now\nreally did wish to solicit an interview for a personage of great\nliterary pretensions, who sometimes dealt with him, and who had come\nfrom the West End for the honour of an interview with Mr. Reding.\nCharles groaned, but only one reply was possible; the day was already\nwasted, and with a sort of dull resignation he gave permission for the\nintroduction of the stranger.\n\nIt was a pale-faced man of about thirty-five, who, when he spoke, arched\nhis eyebrows, and had a peculiar smile. He began by expressing his\napprehension that Mr. Reding must have been wearied by impertinent and\nunnecessary visitors--visitors without intellect, who knew no better\nthan to obtrude their fanaticism on persons who did but despise it. \"I\nknow more about the Universities,\" he continued, \"than to suppose that\nany congeniality can exist between their members and the mass of\nreligious sectarians. You have had very distinguished men among you,\nsir, at Oxford, of very various schools, yet all able men, and\ndistinguished in the pursuit of Truth, though they have arrived at\ncontradictory opinions.\"\n\nNot knowing what he was driving at, Reding remained in an attitude of\nexpectation.\n\n\"I belong,\" he continued, \"to a Society which is devoted to the\nextension among all classes of the pursuit of Truth. Any philosophical\nmind, Mr. Reding, must have felt deep interest in your own party in the\nUniversity. Our Society, in fact, considers you to be distinguished\nConfessors in that all-momentous occupation; and I have thought I could\nnot pay yourself individually, whose name has lately honourably appeared\nin the papers, a better compliment than to get you elected a member of\nour Truth Society. And here is your diploma,\" he added, handing a sheet\nof paper to him. Charles glanced his eye over it; it was a paper, part\nengraving, part print, part manuscript. An emblem of truth was in the\ncentre, represented, not by a radiating sun or star, as might be\nexpected, but as the moon under total eclipse, surrounded, as by cherub\nfaces, by the heads of Socrates, Cicero, Julian, Abelard, Luther,\nBenjamin Franklin, and Lord Brougham. Then followed some sentences to\nthe effect that the London Branch Association of the British and Foreign\nTruth Society, having evidence of the zeal in the pursuit of Truth of\nCharles Reding, Esq., member of Oxford University, had unanimously\nelected him into their number, and had assigned him the dignified and\nresponsible office of associate and corresponding member.\n\n\"I thank the Truth Society very much,\" said Charles, when he got to the\nend of the paper, \"for this mark of their good will; yet I regret to\nhave scruples about accepting it till some of the patrons are changed,\nwhose heads are prefixed to the diploma. For instance, I do not like to\nbe under the shadow of the Emperor Julian.\"\n\n\"You would respect his love of Truth, I presume,\" said Mr. Batts.\n\n\"Not much, I fear,\" said Charles, \"seeing it did not hinder him from\ndeliberately embracing error.\"\n\n\"No, not so,\" answered Mr. Batts; \"_he_ thought it Truth; and Julian, I\nconceive, cannot be said to have deserted the Truth, because, in fact,\nhe always was in pursuit of it.\"\n\n\"I fear,\" said Reding, \"there is a very serious difference between your\nprinciples and my own on this point.\"\n\n\"Ah, my dear sir, a little attention to our principles will remove it,\"\nsaid Mr. Batts: \"let me beg your acceptance of this little pamphlet, in\nwhich you will find some fundamental truths stated, almost in the way of\naphorisms. I wish to direct your attention to page 8, where they are\ndrawn out.\"\n\nCharles turned to the page, and read as follows:--\n\n     \"_On the pursuit of Truth._\n\n     1. It is uncertain whether Truth exists.\n\n     2. It is certain that it cannot be found.\n\n     3. It is a folly to boast of possessing it.\n\n     4. Man's work and duty, as man, consist, not in possessing, but in\n     seeking it.\n\n     5. His happiness and true dignity consist in the pursuit.\n\n     6. The pursuit of Truth is an end to be engaged in for its own\n     sake.\n\n     7. As philosophy is the love, not the possession of wisdom, so\n     religion is the love, not the possession of Truth.\n\n     8. As Catholicism begins with faith, so Protestantism ends with\n     inquiry.\n\n     9. As there is disinterestedness in seeking, so is there\n     selfishness in claiming to possess.\n\n     10. The martyr of Truth is he who dies professing that it is a\n     shadow.\n\n     11. A life-long martyrdom is this, to be ever changing.\n\n     12. The fear of error is the bane of inquiry.\"\n\nCharles did not get further than these, but others followed of a similar\ncharacter. He returned the pamphlet to Mr. Batts. \"I see enough,\" he\nsaid, \"of the opinions of the Truth Society to admire their ingenuity\nand originality, but, excuse me, not their good sense. It is impossible\nI should subscribe to what is so plainly opposed to Christianity.\"\n\nMr. Batts looked annoyed. \"We have no wish to oppose Christianity,\" he\nsaid; \"we only wish Christianity not to oppose us. It is very hard that\nwe may not go our own way, when we are quite willing that others should\ngo theirs. It seems imprudent, I conceive, in this age, to represent\nChristianity as hostile to the progress of the mind, and to turn into\nenemies of revelation those who do sincerely wish to 'live and let\nlive.'\"\n\n\"But contradictions cannot be true,\" said Charles: \"if Christianity says\nthat Truth can be found, it must be an error to state that it cannot be\nfound.\"\n\n\"I conceive it to be intolerant,\" persisted Mr. Batts: \"you will grant,\nI suppose, that Christianity has nothing to do with astronomy or\ngeology: why, then, should it be allowed to interfere with philosophy?\"\n\nIt was useless proceeding in the discussion; Charles repressed the\nanswer which rose on his tongue of the essential connexion of philosophy\nwith religion; a silence ensued of several minutes, and Mr. Batts at\nlength took the hint, for he rose with a disappointed air, and wished\nhim good morning.\n\nIt mattered little now whether he was left to himself or not, except\nthat conversation harassed and fretted him; for, as to turning his mind\nto the subjects which were to have been his occupation that morning, it\nwas by this time far too much wearied and dissipated to undertake them.\nOn Mr. Batts' departure, then, he did not make the attempt, but sat\nbefore the fire, dull and depressed, and in danger of relapsing into the\ntroubled thoughts from which his railroad companion had extricated him.\nWhen, then, at the end of half an hour, a new knock was heard at the\ndoor, he admitted the postulant with a calm indifference, as if fortune\nhad now done her worst, and he had nothing to fear. A middle-aged man\nmade his appearance, sleek and plump, who seemed to be in good\ncircumstances, and to have profited by them. His glossy black dress, in\ncontrast with the crimson colour of his face and throat, for he wore no\ncollars, and his staid and pompous bearing, added to his rapid delivery\nwhen he spoke, gave him much the look of a farm-yard turkey-cock in the\neyes of any one who was less disgusted with seeing new faces than Reding\nwas at that moment. The new comer looked sharply at him as he entered.\n\"Your most obedient,\" he said abruptly; \"you seem in low spirits, my\ndear sir; but sit down, Mr. Reding, and give me the opportunity of\noffering to you a little good advice. You may guess what I am by my\nappearance: I speak for myself; I will say no more; I can be of use to\nyou. Mr. Reding,\" he continued, pulling his chair towards him, and\nputting out his hand as if he was going to paw him, \"have not you made a\nmistake in thinking it necessary to go to the Romish Church for a relief\nof your religious difficulties?\"\n\n\"You have not yet heard from me, sir,\" answered Charles gravely, \"that I\nhave any difficulties at all. Excuse me if I am abrupt; I have had many\npersons calling on me with your errand. It is very kind of you, but I\ndon't want advice; I was a fool to come here.\"\n\n\"Well, my dear Mr. Reding, but listen to me,\" answered his persecutor,\nspreading out the fingers of his right hand, and opening his eyes wide:\n\"I am right, I believe, in apprehending that your reason for leaving the\nEstablishment is, that you cannot carry out the surplice in the pulpit\nand the candlesticks on the table. Now, don't you do more than you need.\nPardon me, but you are like a person who should turn the Thames in upon\nhis house, when he merely wanted his door-steps scrubbed. Why become a\nconvert to Popery, when you can obtain your object in a cheaper and\nbetter way? Set up for yourself, my dear sir--set up for yourself; form\na new denomination, sixpence will do it; and then you may have your\nsurplice and candlesticks to your heart's content, without denying the\ngospel, or running into the horrible abominations of the Scarlet Woman.\"\nAnd he sat upright in his chair, with his hands flat on his extended\nknees, watching with a self-satisfied air the effect of his words upon\nReding.\n\n\"I have had enough of this,\" said poor Charles; \"you, indeed, are but\none of a number, sir, and would say you had nothing to do with the rest;\nbut I cannot help regarding you as the fifth, or sixth, or seventh\nperson--I can't count them--who has been with me this morning, giving\nme, though with the best intentions, advice which has not been asked\nfor. I don't know you, sir; you have no introduction to me; you have not\neven told me your name. It is not usual to discourse on such personal\nmatters with strangers. Let me, then, thank you first for your kindness\nin coming, and next for the additional kindness of going.\" And Charles\nrose up.\n\nHis visitor did not seem inclined to move, or to notice what he had\nsaid. He stopped awhile, opened his handkerchief with much deliberation,\nand blew his nose; then he continued: \"Kitchens is my name, sir; Dr.\nKitchens; your state of mind, Mr. Reding, is not unknown to me; you are\nat present under the influence of the old Adam, and indeed in a\nmelancholy way. I was not unprepared for it; and I have put into my\npocket a little tract which I shall press upon you with all the\nChristian solicitude which brother can show towards brother. Here it is;\nI have the greatest confidence in it; perhaps you have heard the name;\nit is known as Kitchens's Spiritual Elixir. The Elixir has enlightened\nmillions; and, I will take on me to say, will convert you in twenty-four\nhours. Its operation is mild and pleasurable, and its effects are\nmarvellous, prodigious, though it does not consist of more than eight\nduodecimo pages. Here's a list of testimonies to some of the most\nremarkable cases. I have known one hundred and two cases myself in which\nit effected a saving change in six hours; seventy-nine in which its\noperations took place in as few as three; and twenty-seven where\nconversion followed instantaneously after the perusal. At once, poor\nsinners, who five minutes before had been like the demoniac in the\ngospel, were seen sitting 'clothed, and in their right mind.' Thus I\nspeak within the mark, Mr. Reding, when I say I will warrant a change in\nyou in twenty-four hours. I have never known but one instance in which\nit seemed to fail, and that was the case of a wretched old man who held\nit in his hand a whole day in dead silence, without any apparent\neffect; but here _exceptio probat regulam_, for on further inquiry we\nfound he could not read. So the tract was slowly administered to him by\nanother person; and before it was finished, I protest to you, Mr.\nReding, he fell into a deep and healthy slumber, perspired profusely,\nand woke up at the end of twelve hours a new creature, perfectly new,\nbran new, and fit for heaven--whither he went in the course of the week.\nWe are now making farther experiments on its operation, and we find that\neven separate leaves of the tract have a proportionate effect. And, what\nis more to your own purpose, it is quite a specific in the case of\nPopery. It directly attacks the peccant matter, and all the trash about\nsacraments, saints, penance, purgatory, and good works is dislodged from\nthe soul at once.\"\n\nCharles remained silent and grave, as one who was likely suddenly to\nbreak out into some strong act, rather than condescend to any farther\nparleying.\n\nDr. Kitchens proceeded: \"Have you attended any of the lectures delivered\nagainst the Mystic Babylon, or any of the public disputes which have\nbeen carried on in so many places? My dear friend, Mr. Macanoise,\ncontested ten points with thirty Jesuits--a good half of the Jesuits in\nLondon--and beat them upon all. Or have you heard any of the luminaries\nof Exeter Hall? There is Mr. Gabb; he is a Boanerges, a perfect Niagara,\nfor his torrent of words; such momentum in his delivery; it is as rapid\nas it's strong; it's enough to knock a man down. He can speak seven\nhours running without fatigue; and last year he went through England,\ndelivering through the length and breadth of the land, one, and one\nonly, awful protest against the apocalyptic witch of Endor. He began at\nDevonport and ended at Berwick, and surpassed himself on every delivery.\nAt Berwick, his last exhibition, the effect was perfectly tremendous; a\nfriend of mine heard it; he assures me, incredible as it may appear,\nthat it shattered some glass in a neighbouring house; and two priests of\nBaal, who were with their day-school within a quarter of a mile of Mr.\nGabb, were so damaged by the mere echo, that one forthwith took to his\nbed and the other has walked on crutches ever since.\" He stopped awhile;\nthen he continued: \"And what was it, do you think, Mr. Reding, which had\nthis effect on them? Why, it was Mr. Gabb's notion about the sign of the\nbeast in the Revelation: he proved, Mr. Reding--it was the most original\nhit in his speech--he proved that it was the sign of the cross, the\nmaterial cross.\"\n\nThe time at length was come; Reding could not bear more; and, as it\nhappened, his visitor's offence gave him the means, as well as a cause,\nfor punishing him. \"Oh,\" he said suddenly, \"then I suppose, Dr.\nKitchens, you can't tolerate the cross?\"\n\n\"Oh no; tolerate it!\" answered Dr. Kitchens; \"it is Antichrist.\"\n\n\"You can't bear the sight of it, I suspect, Dr. Kitchens?\"\n\n\"I can't endure it, sir; what true Protestant can?\"\n\n\"Then look here,\" said Charles, taking a small crucifix out of his\nwriting-desk; and he held it before Dr. Kitchens' face.\n\nDr. Kitchens at once started on his feet, and retreated. \"What's that?\"\nhe said, and his face flushed up and then turned pale; \"what's that?\nit's the thing itself!\" and he made a snatch at it. \"Take it away, Mr.\nReding; it's an idol; I cannot endure it; take away the thing!\"\n\n\"I declare,\" said Reding to himself, \"it really has power over him;\" and\nhe still confronted Dr. Kitchens with it, while he kept it out of Dr.\nKitchens' reach.\n\n\"Take it away, Mr. Reding, I beseech you,\" cried Kitchens, still\nretreating, while Charles still pressed on him; \"take it away, it's too\nmuch. Oh, oh! Spare me, spare me, Mr. Reding!--nehushtan--an idol!--oh,\nyou young antichrist, you devil!--'tis He, 'tis He--torment!--spare me,\nMr. Reding.\" And the miserable man began to dance about, still eyeing\nthe sacred sign, and motioning it from him.\n\nCharles now had victory in his hands: there was, indeed, some difficulty\nin steering Kitchens to the door from the place where he had been\nsitting, but, that once effected, he opened it with violence, and,\nthrowing himself on the staircase, he began to jump down two or three\nsteps at a time, with such forgetfulness of everything but his own\nterror, that he came plump upon two persons who, in rivalry of each\nother, were in the act of rushing up: and, while he drove one against\nthe rail, he fairly rolled the other to the bottom.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\n\nCharles threw himself on his chair, burying the Crucifix in his bosom,\nquite worn out with his long trial and the sudden exertion in which it\nhad just now been issuing. When a noise was heard at his door, and\nknocks succeeded, he took no farther notice than to plant his feet on\nthe fender and bury his face in his hands. The summons at first was\napparently from one person only, but his delay in answering it gave time\nfor the arrival of another; and there was a brisk succession of\nalternate knocks from the two, which Charles let take its course. At\nlength one of the rival candidates for admission, bolder than the other,\nslowly opened the door; when the other, who had impetuously scrambled\nupstairs after his fall, rushed in before him, crying out, \"One word for\nthe New Jerusalem!\" \"In charity,\" said Reding, without changing his\nattitude, \"in charity, leave me alone. You mean it well, but I don't\nwant you, sir; I don't indeed. I've had Old Jerusalem here already, and\nJewish Apostles, and Gentile Apostles, and free inquiry, and fancy\nreligion, and Exeter Hall. What _have_ I done? why can't I die out in\npeace? My dear sir, do go! I can't see you; I'm worn out.\" And he rose\nup and advanced towards him. \"Call again, dear sir, if you are bent on\ntalking with me; but, excuse me, I really have had enough of it for one\nday. No fault of yours, my dear sir, that you have come the sixth or\nseventh.\" And he opened the door for him.\n\n\"A madman nearly threw me down as I was coming up,\" said the person\naddressed, in some agitation.\n\n\"Ten thousand pardons for his rudeness, my dear sir--ten thousand\npardons, but allow me;\" and he bowed him out of the room. He then turned\nround to the other stranger, who had stood by in silence: \"And you too,\nsir ... is it possible!\" His countenance changed to extreme surprise; it\nwas Mr. Malcolm. Charles's thoughts flowed in a new current, and his\ntormentors were suddenly forgotten.\n\nThe history of Mr. Malcolm's calling was simple. He had always been a\ncollector of old books, and had often taken advantage of the stores of\nCharles's landlord in adding to his library. Passing through London to\nthe Eastern Counties Rail, he happened to call in; and, as his friend\nthe bookseller was not behind his own reading-room in the diffusion of\ngossip, he learned that Mr. Reding, who was on the point of seceding\nfrom the Establishment, was at that moment above stairs. He waited with\nimpatience through Dr. Kitchens' visit, and even then found himself, to\nhis no small annoyance, in danger of being outstripped by the good\nSwedenborgian.\n\n\"How d'ye do, Charles?\" he said, at length, with not a little stiffness\nin his manner, while Charles had no less awkwardness in receiving him;\n\"you have been holding a levee this morning; I thought I should never\nget to see you. Sit you down; let us both sit down, and let me at last\nhave a word or two with you.\"\n\nIn spite of the diversified trial Charles had sustained from strangers\nthat morning, there was no one perhaps whom he would have less desired\nto see than Mr. Malcolm. He could not help associating him with his\nfather, yet he felt no opening of heart towards him, nor respect for his\njudgment. His feeling was a mixture of prescriptive fear and\nfriendliness, attachment from old associations, and desire of standing\nwell with him, but neither confidence nor real love. He coloured up and\nfelt guilty, yet without a clear understanding why.\n\n\"Well, Charles Reding,\" he said, \"I think we know each other well enough\nfor you to have given me a hint of what was going on as regards you.\"\n\nCharles said he had written to him only the evening before.\n\n\"Ah, when there was not time to answer your letter,\" said Mr. Malcolm.\n\nCharles said he wished to spare so kind a friend ... he bungled, and\ncould not finish his sentence.\n\n\"A friend, who, of course, could give no advice,\" said Mr. Malcolm\ndrily. Presently he said, \"Were those people some of your new friends\nwho were calling on you? they have kept me in the shop this\nthree-quarters of an hour; and the fellow who has just come down nearly\nthrew me over the baluster.\"\n\n\"Oh no, sir, I know nothing of them; they were the most unwelcome of\nintruders.\"\n\n\"As some one else seems to be,\" said Mr. Malcolm.\n\nCharles was very much hurt; the more so, because he had nothing to say;\nhe kept silence.\n\n\"Well, Charles,\" said Mr. Malcolm, not looking at him, \"I have known you\nfrom this high; more, from a child in arms. A frank, open boy you were;\nI don't know what has spoiled you. These Jesuits, perhaps.... It was not\nso in your father's lifetime.\"\n\n\"My dear sir,\" said Charles, \"it pierces me to the heart to hear you\ntalk so. You have indeed always been most kind to me. If I have erred,\nit has been an error of judgment; and I am very sorry for it, and hope\nyou will forgive it. I acted for the best; but I have been, as you must\nfeel, in a most trying situation. My mother has known what I was\ncontemplating this year past.\"\n\n\"Trying situation! fudge! What have you to do with situations? I could\nhave told you a great deal about these Catholics; I know all about them.\nError of judgment! don't tell me. I know how these things happen quite\nwell. I have seen such things before; only I thought you a more sensible\nfellow. There was young Dalton of St. Cross; he goes abroad, and falls\nin with a smooth priest, who persuades the silly fellow that the\nCatholic Church is the ancient and true Church of England, the only\nreligion for a gentleman; he is introduced to a Count this, and a\nMarchioness that, and returns a Catholic. There was another; what was\nhis name? I forget it, of a Berkshire family. He is smitten with a\npretty face; nothing will serve but he must marry her; but she's a\nCatholic, and can't marry a heretic; so he, forsooth, gives up the\nfavour of his uncle and his prospects in the county, for his fair\nJuliet. There was another,--but it's useless going on. And, now I wonder\nwhat has taken you.\"\n\nAll this was the best justification for Charles's not having spoken to\nMr. Malcolm on the subject. That gentleman had had his own experience of\nthirty or forty years, and, like some great philosophers, he made that\npersonal experience of his the decisive test of the possible and the\ntrue. \"I know them,\" he continued--\"I know them; a set of hypocrites and\nsharpers. I could tell you such stories of what I fell in with abroad.\nThose priests are not to be trusted. Did you ever know a priest?\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Charles.\n\n\"Did you ever see a Popish chapel?\"\n\n\"No.\"\n\n\"Do you know anything of Catholic books, Catholic doctrine, Catholic\nmorality? I warrant it, not much.\"\n\nCharles looked very uncomfortable.\n\n\"Then what makes you go to them?\"\n\nCharles did not know what to say.\n\n\"Silly boy,\" he went on, \"you have not a word to say for yourself; it's\nall idle fancy. You are going as a bird to the fowler.\"\n\nReding began to rouse himself; he felt he ought to say something; he\nfelt that silence would tell against him. \"Dear sir,\" he answered,\n\"there's nothing but may be turned against one if a person is so minded.\nNow, do think; had I known this or that priest, you would have said at\nonce, 'Ah, he came over you.' If I had been familiar with Catholic\nchapels, 'I was allured by the singing or the incense.' What can I have\ndone better than keep myself to myself, go by my best reason, consult\nthe friends whom I happened to find around me, as I have done, and wait\nin patience till I was sure of my convictions?\"\n\n\"Ah, that's the way with you youngsters,\" said Mr. Malcolm; \"you all\nthink you are so right; you do think so admirably that older heads are\nworth nothing to the like of you. Well,\" he went on, putting on his\ngloves, \"I see I am not in the way to persuade you. Poor dear Charlie, I\ngrieve for you; what would your poor father have said, had he lived to\nsee it? Poor Reding, he has been spared this. But perhaps it would not\nhave happened. I know what the upshot will be; you will come back--come\nback you will, to a dead certainty. We shall see you back, foolish boy,\nafter you have had your gallop over your ploughed field. Well, well;\nbetter than running wild. You must have your hobby; it might have been a\nworse; you might have run through your money. But perhaps you'll be\ngiving it away, as it is, to some artful priest. It's grievous,\ngrievous; your education thrown away, your prospects ruined, your poor\nmother and sisters left to take care of themselves. And you don't say a\nword to me.\" And he began musing. \"A troublesome world: good-bye,\nCharles; you are high and mighty now, and are in full sail: you may come\nto your father's friend some day in a different temper. Good-bye.\"\n\nThere was no help for it; Charles's heart was full, but his head was\nwearied and confused, and his spirit sank; for all these reasons he had\nnot a word to say, and seemed to Mr. Malcolm either stupid or close. He\ncould but wring warmly Mr. Malcolm's reluctant hand, and accompany him\ndown to the street-door.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\n\n\"This will never do,\" said Charles, as he closed the door, and ran\nupstairs; \"here is a day wasted, worse than wasted, wasted partly on\nstrangers, partly on friends; and it's hard to say in which case a more\nthorough waste. I ought to have gone to the Convent at once.\" The\nthought flashed into his mind, and he stood over the fire dwelling on\nit. \"Yes,\" he said, \"I will delay no longer. How does time go? I declare\nit's past four o'clock.\" He then thought again: \"I'll get over my\ndinner, and then at once betake myself to my good Passionists.\"\n\nTo the coffee-house then he went, and, as it was some way off, it is not\nwonderful that it was near six before he arrived at the Convent. It was\na plain brick building; money had not been so abundant as to overflow\nupon the exterior, after the expense of the interior had been provided\nfor. And it was incomplete; a large church had been enclosed, but it was\nscarcely more than a shell,--altars, indeed, had been set up, but, for\nthe rest, it had little more than good proportions, a broad sanctuary, a\nserviceable organ, and an effective choir. There was a range of\nbuildings adjacent, capable of holding about half-a-dozen fathers; but\nthe size of the church required a larger establishment. By this time,\ndoubtless, things are different, but we are looking back at the first\nefforts of the English Congregation, when it had scarcely ceased to\nstruggle for life, and when friends and members were but beginning to\nflow in.\n\nIt was indeed but ten years, at that time, since the severest of modern\nrules had been introduced into England. Two centuries after the\nmemorable era when St. Philip and St. Ignatius, making light of those\nbodily austerities of which they were personally so great masters,\npreached mortification of will and reason as more necessary for a\ncivilized age,--in the lukewarm and self-indulgent eighteenth century,\nFather Paul of the Cross was divinely moved to found a Congregation in\nsome respects more ascetic than the primitive hermits and the orders of\nthe middle age. It was not fast, or silence, or poverty which\ndistinguished it, though here too it is not wanting in strictness; but\nin the cell of its venerable founder, on the Celian Hill, hangs an iron\ndiscipline or scourge, studded with nails, which is a memorial, not only\nof his own self-inflicted sufferings, but of those of his Italian\nfamily. The object of those sufferings was as remarkable as their\nintensity; penance, indeed, is in one respect the end of all\nself-chastisement, but in the instance of the Passionists the use of the\nscourge was specially directed to the benefit of their neighbour. They\napplied the pain to the benefit of the holy souls in Purgatory, or they\nunderwent it to rouse a careless audience. On their missions, when their\nwords seemed uttered in vain, they have been known suddenly to undo\ntheir habit, and to scourge themselves with sharp knives or razors,\ncrying out to the horrified people, that they would not show mercy to\ntheir flesh till they whom they were addressing took pity on their own\nperishing souls. Nor was it to their own countrymen alone that this\nself-consuming charity extended; how it so happened does not appear;\nperhaps a certain memento close to their house was the earthly cause;\nbut so it was, that for many years the heart of Father Paul was expanded\ntowards a northern nation, with which, humanly speaking, he had nothing\nto do. Over against St. John and St. Paul, the home of the Passionists\non the Celian, rises the old church and monastery of San Gregorio, the\nwomb, as it may be called, of English Christianity. There had lived that\ngreat Saint, who is named our Apostle, who was afterwards called to the\nchair of St. Peter; and thence went forth, in and after his pontificate,\nAugustine, Paulinus, Justus, and the other Saints by whom our barbarous\nancestors were converted. Their names, which are now written up upon the\npillars of the portico, would almost seem to have issued forth, and\ncrossed over, and confronted the venerable Paul; for, strange to say,\nthe thought of England came into his ordinary prayers; and in his last\nyears, after a vision during Mass, as if he had been Augustine or\nMellitus, he talked of his \"sons\" in England.\n\nIt was strange enough that even one Italian in the heart of Rome should\nat that time have ambitious thoughts of making novices or converts in\nthis country; but, after the venerable Founder's death, his special\ninterest in our distant isle showed itself in another member of his\ninstitute. On the Apennines, near Viterbo, there dwelt a shepherd-boy,\nin the first years of this century, whose mind had early been drawn\nheavenward; and, one day, as he prayed before an image of the Madonna,\nhe felt a vivid intimation that he was destined to preach the Gospel\nunder the northern sky. There appeared no means by which a Roman peasant\nshould be turned into a missionary; nor did the prospect open, when this\nyouth found himself, first a lay-brother, then a Father, in the\nCongregation of the Passion. Yet, though no external means appeared, the\ninward impression did not fade; on the contrary, it became more\ndefinite, and, in process of time, instead of the dim north, England was\nengraven on his heart. And, strange to say, as years went on, without\nhis seeking, for he was simply under obedience, our peasant found\nhimself at length upon the very shore of the stormy northern sea, whence\nCaesar of old looked out for a new world to conquer; yet that he should\ncross the strait was still as little likely as before. However, it was\nas likely as that he should ever have got so near it; and he used to eye\nthe restless, godless waves, and wonder with himself whether the day\nwould ever come when he should be carried over them. And come it did,\nnot however by any determination of his own, but by the same Providence\nwhich thirty years before had given him the anticipation of it.\n\nAt the time of our narrative, Father Domenico de Matre Dei had become\nfamiliar with England; he had had many anxieties here, first from want\nof funds, then still more from want of men. Year passed after year, and,\nwhether fear of the severity of the rule--though that was groundless,\nfor it had been mitigated for England--or the claim of other religious\nbodies was the cause, his community did not increase, and he was tempted\nto despond. But every work has its season; and now for some time past\nthat difficulty had been gradually lessening; various zealous men, some\nof noble birth, others of extensive acquirements, had entered the\nCongregation; and our friend Willis, who at this time had received the\npriesthood, was not the last of these accessions, though domiciled at a\ndistance from London. And now the reader knows much more about the\nPassionists than did Reding at the time that he made his way to their\nmonastery.\n\nThe church door came first, and, as it was open, he entered it. It\napparently was filling for service. When he got inside, the person who\nimmediately preceded him dipped his finger into a vessel of water which\nstood at the entrance, and offered it to Charles. Charles, ignorant what\nit meant, and awkward from his consciousness of it, did nothing but\nslink aside, and look for some place of refuge; but the whole space was\nopen, and there seemed no corner to retreat into. Every one, however,\nseemed about his own business; no one minded him, and so far he felt at\nhis ease. He stood near the door, and began to look about him. A\nprofusion of candles was lighting at the High Altar, which stood in the\ncentre of a semicircular apse. There were side-altars--perhaps\nhalf-a-dozen; most of them without lights, but, even here, solitary\nworshippers might be seen. Over one was a large old Crucifix with a\nlamp, and this had a succession of visitors. They came each for five\nminutes, said some prayers which were attached in a glazed frame to the\nrail, and passed away. At another, which was in a chapel at the farther\nend of one of the aisles, six long candles were burning, and over it was\nan image. On looking attentively, Charles made out at last that it was\nan image of Our Lady, and the Child held out a rosary. Here a\ncongregation had already assembled, or rather was in the middle of some\nservice, to him unknown. It was rapid, alternate, and monotonous; and,\nas it seemed interminable, Reding turned his eyes elsewhere. They fell\nfirst on one, then on another confessional, round each of which was a\nlittle crowd, kneeling, waiting every one his own turn for presenting\nhimself for the sacrament--the men on the one side, the women on the\nother. At the lower end of the church were about three ranges of\nmoveable benches with backs and kneelers; the rest of the large space\nwas open, and filled with chairs. The growing object of attention at\npresent was the High Altar; and each person, as he entered, took a\nchair, and, kneeling down behind it, began his prayers. At length the\nchurch got very full; rich and poor were mixed together--artisans,\nwell-dressed youths, Irish labourers, mothers with two or three\nchildren--the only division being that of men from women. A set of boys\nand children, mixed with some old crones, had got possession of the\naltar-rail, and were hugging it with restless motions, as if in\nexpectation.\n\nThough Reding had continued standing, no one would have noticed him; but\nhe saw the time was come for him to kneel, and accordingly he moved into\na corner seat on the bench nearest him. He had hardly done so, when a\nprocession with lights passed from the sacristy to the altar; something\nwent on which he did not understand, and then suddenly began what, by\nthe _Miserere_ and _Ora pro nobis_, he perceived to be a litany; a hymn\nfollowed. Reding thought he never had been present at worship before, so\nabsorbed was the attention, so intense was the devotion of the\ncongregation. What particularly struck him was, that whereas in the\nChurch of England the clergyman or the organ was everything and the\npeople nothing, except so far as the clerk is their representative, here\nit was just reversed. The priest hardly spoke, or at least audibly; but\nthe whole congregation was as though one vast instrument or\nPanharmonicon, moving all together, and, what was most remarkable, as if\nself-moved. They did not seem to require any one to prompt or direct\nthem, though in the Litany the choir took the alternate parts. The words\nwere Latin, but every one seemed to understand them thoroughly, and to\nbe offering up his prayers to the Blessed Trinity, and the Incarnate\nSaviour, and the great Mother of God, and the glorified Saints, with\nhearts full in proportion to the energy of the sounds they uttered.\nThere was a little boy near him, and a poor woman, singing at the pitch\nof their voices. There was no mistaking it; Reding said to himself,\n\"This _is_ a popular religion.\" He looked round at the building; it was,\nas we have said, very plain, and bore the marks of being unfinished;\nbut the Living Temple which was manifested in it needed no curious\ncarving or rich marble to complete it, \"for the glory of God had\nenlightened it, and the Lamb was the lamp thereof.\" \"How wonderful,\"\nsaid Charles to himself, \"that people call this worship formal and\nexternal; it seems to possess all classes, young and old, polished and\nvulgar, men and women indiscriminately; it is the working of one Spirit\nin all, making many one.\"\n\nWhile he was thus thinking, a change came over the worship. A priest, or\nat least an assistant, had mounted for a moment above the altar, and\nremoved a chalice or vessel which stood there; he could not see\ndistinctly. A cloud of incense was rising on high; the people suddenly\nall bowed low; what could it mean? the truth flashed on him, fearfully\nyet sweetly; it was the Blessed Sacrament--it was the Lord Incarnate who\nwas on the altar, who had come to visit and to bless His people. It was\nthe Great Presence, which makes a Catholic Church different from every\nother place in the world; which makes it, as no other place can be,\nholy. The Breviary offices were by this time not unknown to Reding; and\nas he threw himself on the pavement, in sudden self-abasement and joy,\nsome words of those great Antiphons came into his mouth, from which\nWillis had formerly quoted: \"O Adonai, et Dux domus Israel, qui Moysi in\nrubo apparuisti; O Emmanuel, Exspectatio Gentium et Salvator earum, veni\nad salvandum nos, Domine Deus noster.\"\n\nThe function did not last very long after this; Reding, on looking up,\nfound the congregation rapidly diminishing, and the lights in course of\nextinction. He saw he must be quick in his motions. He made his way to a\nlay-brother who was waiting till the doors could be closed, and begged\nto be conducted to the Superior. The lay-brother feared he might be busy\nat the moment, but conducted him through the sacristy to a small neat\nroom, where, being left to himself, he had time to collect his thoughts.\nAt length the Superior appeared; he was a man past the middle age, and\nhad a grave yet familiar manner. Charles's feelings were indescribable,\nbut all pleasurable. His heart beat, not with fear or anxiety, but with\nthe thrill of delight with which he realized that he was beneath the\nshadow of a Catholic community, and face to face with one of its\npriests. His trouble went in a moment, and he could have laughed for\njoy. He could hardly keep his countenance, and almost feared to be taken\nfor a fool. He presented the card of his railroad companion. The good\nFather smiled when he saw the name, nor did the few words which were\nwritten with pencil on the card diminish his satisfaction. Charles and\nhe soon came to an understanding; he found himself already known in the\ncommunity by means of Willis; and it was arranged that he should take up\nhis lodging with his new friends forthwith, and remain there as long as\nit suited him. He was to prepare for confession at once; and it was\nhoped that on the following Sunday he might be received into Catholic\ncommunion. After that, he was, at a convenient interval, to present\nhimself to the Bishop, from whom he would seek the sacrament of\nconfirmation. Not much time was necessary for removing his luggage from\nhis lodgings; and in the course of an hour from the time of his\ninterview with the Father Superior, he was sitting by himself, with pen\nand paper and his books, and with a cheerful fire, in a small cell of\nhis new home.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\n\nA very few words will conduct us to the end of our history. It was\nSunday morning about seven o'clock, and Charles had been admitted into\nthe communion of the Catholic Church about an hour since. He was still\nkneeling in the church of the Passionists before the Tabernacle, in the\npossession of a deep peace and serenity of mind, which he had not\nthought possible on earth. It was more like the stillness which almost\nsensibly affects the ears when a bell that has long been tolling stops,\nor when a vessel, after much tossing at sea, finds itself in harbour. It\nwas such as to throw him back in memory on his earliest years, as if he\nwere really beginning life again. But there was more than the happiness\nof childhood in his heart; he seemed to feel a rock under his feet; it\nwas the _soliditas Cathedrae Petri_. He went on kneeling, as if he were\nalready in heaven, with the throne of God before him, and angels around;\nand as if to move were to lose his privilege.\n\nAt length he felt a light hand on his shoulder, and a voice said,\n\"Reding, I am going; let me just say farewell to you before I go.\" He\nlooked around; it was Willis, or rather Father Aloysius, in his dark\nPassionist habit, with the white heart sewed in at his left breast.\nWillis carried him from the church into the sacristy. \"What a joy,\nReding!\" he whispered, when the door closed upon them; \"what a day of\njoy! St. Edward's day, a doubly blessed day henceforth. My Superior let\nme be present; but now I must go. You did not see me, but I was present\nthrough the whole.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Charles, \"what shall I say?--the face of God! As I knelt I\nseemed to wish to say this, and this only, with the Patriarch, 'Now let\nme die, since I have seen Thy Face.'\"\n\n\"You, dear Reding,\" said Father Aloysius, \"have keen fresh feelings;\nmine are blunted by familiarity.\"\n\n\"No, Willis,\" he made answer, \"you have taken the better part betimes,\nwhile I have loitered. Too late have I known Thee, O Thou ancient Truth;\ntoo late have I found Thee, First and only Fair.\"\n\n\"All is well, except as sin makes it ill,\" said Father Aloysius; \"if you\nhave to lament loss of time before conversion, I have to lament it\nafter. If you speak of delay, must not I of rashness? A good God\noverrules all things. But I must away. Do you recollect my last words\nwhen we parted in Devonshire? I have thought of them often since; they\nwere too true then. I said, 'Our ways divide.' They are different still,\nyet they are the same. Whether we shall meet again here below, who\nknows? but there will be a meeting ere long before the Throne of God,\nand under the shadow of His Blessed Mother and all Saints. 'Deus\nmanifeste veniet, Deus noster, et non silebit.'\"\n\nReding took Father Aloysius's hand and kissed it; as he sank on his\nknees the young priest made the sign of blessing over him. Then he\nvanished through the door of the sacristy; and the new convert sought\nhis temporary cell, so happy in the Present, that he had no thoughts\neither for the Past or the Future.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\nPRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.\nEDINBURGH AND LONDON\n\n\n\n\n_CARDINAL NEWMAN'S WORKS._\n\n\n1. SERMONS.\n\n1-8. PAROCHIAL AND PLAIN SERMONS. (_Rivingtons._)\n\n9. SERMONS ON SUBJECTS OF THE DAY. (_Rivingtons._)\n\n10. UNIVERSITY SERMONS. (_Rivingtons._)\n\n11. SERMONS TO MIXED CONGREGATIONS. (_Burns & Oates._)\n\n12. OCCASIONAL SERMONS. (_Burns & Oates._)\n\n\n2. TREATISES.\n\n13. ON THE DOCTRINE OF JUSTIFICATION. (_Rivingtons._)\n\n14. ON THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE. (_Pickering._)\n\n15. ON THE IDEA OF A UNIVERSITY. (_Pickering._)\n\n16. ON THE DOCTRINE OF ASSENT. (_Burns & Oates._)\n\n\n3. ESSAYS.\n\n17. TWO ESSAYS ON MIRACLES. 1. Of Scripture. 2. Of Ecclesiastical\nHistory. (_Pickering._)\n\n18. DISCUSSIONS AND ARGUMENTS. 1. How to accomplish it. 2. The\nAntichrist of the Fathers. 3. Scripture and the Creed. 4. Tamworth\nReading-Room. 5. Who's to blame? 6. An Argument for Christianity.\n(_Pickering._)\n\n19, 20. ESSAYS, CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL. TWO VOLUMES, WITH NOTES. 1.\nPoetry. 2. Rationalism. 3. Apostolical Tradition. 4. De la Mennais. 5.\nPalmer on Faith and Unity. 6. St. Ignatius. 7. Prospects of the Anglican\nChurch. 8. The Anglo-American Church. 9. Countess of Huntingdon. 10.\nCatholicity of the Anglican Church. 11. The Antichrist of Protestants.\n12. Milman's Christianity. 13. Reformation of the Eleventh Century. 14.\nPrivate Judgment. 15. Davison. 16. Keble. (_Pickering._)\n\n\n4. HISTORICAL.\n\n21-23. THREE VOLUMES. 1. The Turks. 2. Cicero. 3. Apollonius. 4.\nPrimitive Christianity. 5. Church of the Fathers. 6. St. Chrysostom. 7.\nTheodoret. 8. St. Benedict. 9. Benedictine Schools. 10. Universities.\n11. Northmen and Normans. 12. Medieval Oxford. 13. Convocation of\nCanterbury. (_Pickering._)\n\n\n5. THEOLOGICAL.\n\n24. THE ARIANS OF THE FOURTH CENTURY. (_Pickering._)\n\n25, 26. ANNOTATED TRANSLATION OF ATHANASIUS. TWO VOLUMES. (_Pickering._)\n\n27. TRACTS. 1. Dissertatiunculae. 2. On the Text of the Seven Epistles of\nSt. Ignatius. 3. Doctrinal Causes of Arianism. 4. Apollinarianism. 5.\nSt. Cyril's Formula. 6. Ordo de Tempore. 7. Douay Version of Scripture.\n(_Pickering._)\n\n\n6. POLEMICAL.\n\n28, 29. VIA MEDIA. TWO VOLUMES, WITH NOTES. 1st Vol. Prophetical Office\nof the Church. 2d Vol. Occasional Letters and Tracts. (_Pickering._)\n\n30, 31. DIFFICULTIES OF ANGLICANS. TWO VOLUMES. 1st Vol. Twelve\nLectures. 2d Vol. Letters to Dr. Pusey concerning the Bl. Virgin, and to\nthe Duke of Norfolk in Defence of the Pope and Council. (_Burns & Oates,\nand Pickering._)\n\n32. PRESENT POSITION OF CATHOLICS IN ENGLAND. (_Burns & Oates._)\n\n33. APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA. (_Longmans._)\n\n\n7. LITERARY.\n\n34. VERSES ON VARIOUS OCCASIONS. (_Burns & Oates._)\n\n35. LOSS AND GAIN. (_Burns & Oates, and Pickering._)\n\n36. CALLISTA. (_Burns & Oates._)\n\n\nIt is scarcely necessary to say that the Author submits all that he has\nwritten to the judgment of the Church, whose gift and prerogative it is\nto determine what is true and what is false in religious teaching.","title":"Loss and gain : $b The story of a convert","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":107699}