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YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY



From the

COLLECTION OF OXFORD BOOKS
made by

FALCONER MADAN
Bodley’s Librarian





il









'IADVERTISEMENT.

The following tale is not intended as a work of con-
troversy in behalf of the Catholic Religion; but as a
description of what is understood by few, viz. the
course of thought and state of mind,—or rather one
such course and state,—which issues in conviction of
its divine origin.

Nor is it founded in fact, to use the common phrase.
It is not the history of any individual mind among
the recent converts to the Catholic Church. The prin-
cipal characters are imaginary; and the writer wishes
to disclaim personal allusion in any. It is with this
view that he has feigned ecclesiastical bodies and
places, to avoid the chance, which might otherwise
occur, of unintentionally suggesting to the reader real
individuals, who were far from his thoughts.

At the same time, free use has been made of say-
ings and doings which are characteristic of the time
and place in which the scene is laid. And moreover,
when a general truth or fact is exhibited, as in a tale,
in individual specimens of it, it is impossible that the
a. 24

ADVEBTISEMENT.

ideal representation should not more or less coincide,
in spite of the author’s endeavour, with its existing
instances or champions.

It must also be added, to prevent a further miscon-
ception, that no proper representative is intended in
this tale, of the religious opinions which had lately so
much influence in the "University of Oxford.

Feb. 21, 1848.LOSS AND GAIN.

PART I.

CHAPTER I.

Chables Reding was the only son of a clergyman,
who was in possession of a valuable benefice in a mid-
land county. His father intended him for orders, and
sent him at a proper age to a public Bchool. He had
long revolved in his mind the respective advantages
and disadvantages of public and private education, and
had decided in favour of the former. “ Seclusion,” he
said, “ is no security for virtue. There is no telling
what is in a hoy’s heart: he may look as open and
happy as usual, and be as kind and attentive, when
there is a great deal wrong going on within. The
heart is a secret with its Maker; no one on earth can
hope to get at it .or to touch it. I have a cure of
souls; what do I really know of my parishioners ?
nothing; their hearts are sealed books to me. And
this dear boy, he comes close to me; he throws his
arms round me; but his soul is as much out of my
sight as if he were at the antipodes. I am not ac-6

LOSS AND GAIN.

cusing him of reserve, dear fellow; his very love and
reverence for me keep him in a sort of charmed soli-
tude. I cannot expect to get at the bottom of him:

‘ Each in his hidden sphere of bliss or woe,

Our hermit spirits dwell.’

It is our lot here below. No one on earth can know
Charles’s secret thoughts. Did I guard him here at
home ever so well, yet, in due time, it would be found
that a serpent had crept into the heart of his inno-
cence. Boys do not fully know what is good and what
is evil; they do wrong things at first almost innocently.
Novelty hides vice from them; there is no one to
warn them or give them rules; and they become slaves
of sin, while they are learning what sin is. They go
to the University, and suddenly plunge into excesses,
the greater in proportion to their inexperience. And
besides all this, I am not equal to the task of forming
so active and inquisitive a mind as his. He already
asks questions which I know not how to answer. So
he shall go to a public school. There he will get dis-
cipline at least, even if he has more of trial: at least
he will gain habits of self-command, manliness, and
circumspection; he will learn to use his eyes, and will
find materials to use them upon; and thus will be
gradually trained for the liberty which, any how, he
must have when he goes to College.”

This was the more necessary, because, with many
high excellences, Charles was naturally timid and
retiring, over-sensitive, and, though lively and cheerful,
yet not without a tinge of melancholy in his character,
which sometimes degenerated into mawkishness.

To Eton, then, he went; and there had the good
fortune to fall into the hands of an excellent tutor,LOSS AND GAIN.

7

who, while he instructed him in the old Church-of-
England principles of Mant and Doyley, gave his mind
a religious impression, which secured him against the
allurements of bad company, whether at the school
itself, 'or afterwards at Oxford. To that celebrated
seat of learning he was in due time transferred, being
entered at St. Saviour’s College; and he is in his sixth
term from matriculation, and his fourth of residence,
at the time our story opens.

At Oxford, it is needless to say, he had found a
great number of his schoolfellows; but, it so happened,
had found very few friends among them. Some were
too gay for him, and he had avoided them; others,
with whom he had been intimate at Eton, having
high connexions, had fairly cut him on coming into
residence, or, being entered at other Colleges, had lost
sight of him. Almost every thing depends at Oxford,
in the matter of acquaintance, on proximity of rooms.
You choose your friend, not so much by your tastes,
as by your staircase. There is a story of a London
tradesman who lost custom after beautifying his pre-
mises, because his entrance went up a step; and we
all know how great is the difference between open and
shut doors when we walk along a street of shops. In
a University, a youth’s hours are portioned out to him.
A regular man gets up and goes to chapel, breakfasts,
gets up his lectures, goes to lecture, walks, dines;
there is little to induce him to mount any staircase
but his own; and if he does so, ten to one he finds
the friend from home whom he is seeking; not to say
that freshmen, who naturally have common feelings
and interests, as naturally are allotted a staircase in
common. And thus it was that Charles Ending was8

LOSS AND GAIN.

brought across William Sheffield, who had come into
residence the same term as himself.

The minds of young people are pliable and elastic,
and easily accommodate themselves to any one they fall
in with. They find grounds of attraction both where
they agree with one another and where they differ; what
is congenial to themselves creates sympathy; what is
correlative, or supplemental, creates admiration and es-
teem. And what is thus begun, is often continued in
after-life by the force of habit and the claims of memory.
Thus, in the selection of friends, chance often does for us
as much as the most careful selection could have effected.
What was the character and degree of that friendship
which sprang up between the freshmen, Reding and
Sheffield, we need not here minutely explain: it will be
enough to say, that what they had in common was fresh-
manship, good talents, and the back staircase; and that
they differed in this: that Sheffield had lived a good
deal with people older than himself, had read much in a
desultory way, and easily picked up opinions and facts,
especially on controversies of the day, without laying
any thing very much to heart; that he was ready, clear-
sighted, unembarrassed, and somewhat forward: Charles,
on the other hand, had little knowledge as yet of prin-
ciples or theirbearings,but understood more deeply than
Sheffield, and held more practically, what he had once
received; he was gentle and affectionate, and easily led
by others, except when duty clearly interfered. It should
be added, that he had fallen in with various religious
denominations in his father’s parish, and had a general,
though not a systematic, knowledge of their tenets.
What they were besides, will be seen as our narrative
advances.LOSS AND GAIN.

9

CHAPTER II.

It was a little past one, p.m., when Sheffield, passing
Charles’s door, saw it open. The college-servant had
just entered with the usual half-commons for luncheon,
and was employed in making up the fire. Sheffield fol-
lowed him in, and found Charles in his cap and gown,
lounging on the arm of his easy chair, and eating his
bread and cheese. Sheffield asked him if he slept, as
well as ate and drank, “ accoutred as he was.” “ I am
just going for a turn into the Meadow,” said Charles;
“ this is to me the best time of the year: nunc formosis-
simus annus; every thing is beautiful; the laburnums
are out, and the may. There is a greater variety of
trees there than in any other place I know hereabouts;
and the planes are so touching just now, with their
small multitudinous green hands half opened; and there
are two or three such fine dark willows stretching over
the Cherwell; I think some Dryad inhabits them: and
as you wind along, just over your right shoulder is the
Long Walk, with the Oxford buildings seen between
the elms. They say there are dons here who recollect
when it was unbroken, nay, when you might walk
under it in hard rain, and get no wet. I know I got
drenched there the other day.”

Sheffield laughed, and said that Charles must put on
his beaver, and walk with him a different way. He
wanted a good walk; his head was stupid from his lec-
tures ; that old Jennings prosed so awfully upon Paley,
it made him quite ill. He had talked of the Apostles as
neither “ deceivers nor deceived,” of their “ sensible mi-
racles,” and of their “ dying for their testimony,” till he
did not know whether he himself was an ens physiobgi-10

LOSS AND GAIN.

cum ox a totummetaphysicum, when Jennings had cruelly
asked him to repeat Paley’s argument; and because he
had not given it in Jennings’ words, friend Jennings had
pursed up his lips, and gone through the whole again;
so intent, in his wooden enthusiasm, on his own analysis
of it, that he did not hear the clock strike the hour; and,
in spite of the men’s shuffling their feet, blowing their
noses, and looking at their watches, on he had gone for a
good twenty minutes past the time; and would have
been going on even then, he verily believed, but for an
interposition only equalled by that of the geese at the
Capitol. Por that, when he had got about half through
his recapitulation, and was stopping at the end of a sen-
tence to see the impression he was making, that un-
couth fellow, Lively, moved by what happy inspiration
he did not know, suddenly broke in, apropos of nothing,
nodding his head, and speaking in a clear cackle, with,
“ Pray, sir, what is your opinion of the infallibility of the
Pope ? ” Upon which every one but Jennings did laugh
out; but he, au cantraire, began to look very black;
and no one can tell what would have happened, had he
not cast his eyes by accident on his watch, on which he
coloured, closed his book, and instanter sent the whole
lecture out of the room.

Charles laughed in his turn, but added: “ Yet, I as-
sure you, Sheffield, that Jennings, stiff and cold as he
seems, is, I do believe, a very good fellow at bottom.
He has before now spoken to me with a good deal of feel-
ing, and has gone out of his way to do me favours. I
see poor bodies coming to him for charity continually;
and they say that his sermons at Holy Cross are excel-
lent.” Sheffield said he liked people to be natural, and
hated that donnish manner. What good could it do ?LOSS AND GAIN.

11

and what did it mean ?	“ That is what I call bigotry,”

answered Charles; “I am for taking every one for what
he is, and not for what he is not: one has this excel-
lence, another that; no one is every thing. Why should
we not drop what we don’t like, and admire what we
like ? This is the only way of getting through life, the
only true wisdom, and surely our duty into the bargain.”
Sheffield thought this regular prose, and unreal. “We
must,” he said, “ have a standard of things, else one
good thing is as good as another. But I can’t stand
here all day,” he continued, “when we ought to be
walking.” And he took off Charles’s cap, and placing
his hat on him instead, said, “ Come, let us be going.”
“Then must I give up my Meadow?” said Charles.
“Of course you must,” answered Sheffield; “youmust
take a beaver walk. I want you to go as far as Oxley,
a village some little way out, all the vicars of which,
sooner or later, are made Bishops. Perhaps even
walking there may do us some good.”

The friends set out, from hat to boot in the most ap-
proved Oxford bandbox cut of trimness and prettiness.
Sheffield was turning into the High Street, when Beding
stopped him : “ It always annoys me,” he said, “ to go
down High Street in a beaver; one is sure to meet a
Proctor.” “ All those University dresses are great
fudge,’(’ answered Sheffield; “ how are we the better for
them ? they are mere outside, and nothing else. Be-
sides, our gown is so hideously ugly.” “ Well, I don’t
go along with your sweeping condemnation,” answered
Charles; “ this is a great place, and should have a dress.
I declare, when I first saw the procession of Heads at
St. Mary’B, it was quite moving. Pirst— ” “Of course
the pokers,” interrupted Sheffield—“ Pirst the organ,12

LOSS AND GAIN.

and every one rising; then the Vice-Chancellor in red,
and. his bow to the preacher, who turns to the pulpit;
then all the Heads in order; and lastly the Proctors.
Meanwhile, you see the head of the preacher slowly
mounting up the steps; when he gets in, he shuts to
the door, looks at the organ-loft to catch the psalm, and
the voices strike up.” Sheffield laughed, and then said,
“Well, I confess I agree with you in your instance.
The preacher is, or is supposed to be, a person of talent;
he is about to hold forth; the divines, the students of a
great University are all there to listen. The pageant
does but fitly represent the great moral fact which is
before us; I understand this. I don’t call this fudge;
what I mean by fudge is, outside without inside. Now
I must say, the sermon itself, and nottlibleast of all the
prayer before it—what do they call it ? ” “ The bidding
prayer,” said Eeding. “ Well, both sermon and prayer
are often arrant fudge. I don’t often go to University
sermons, but I have gone often enough not to go again
without compulsion. The last preacher I heard was from
the country. Oh, it was wonderful! He began at the
pitch of his voice, ‘ Ye shall pray.’ What stuff! ‘ Ye
shall pray;' because old Latimer or Jewell said, ‘Ye shall
praie,’ therefore we must not say, ‘ Let us pray.’ Pre-
sently he brought out,” continued Sheffield, assuming a
pompous and up-and-down tone, “ ‘ especially for that
pure and apostolic branch of it established,’—here the
man rose on his toes, ‘ established in these dominions.’
Next came, ‘ for our Sovereign Lady Victoria, Queen,
Defender of the Paith, in all causes and over all persons,
ecclesiastical as well as civil, within these her dominions,
supreme ’—an awful pause, with an audible fall of the
Bermon-case on the cushion; as though nature did notLOSS AND GAIN.

13

contain, as if the human mind could not sustain, a big-
ger thought. Then followed, ‘ the pious and munificent
founder,’ in the same twang, ‘of All Saints’ and Leicester
Colleges.’ But his chef-d'oeuvre was his emphatic recog-
nition of ‘ all the doctors, both the proctors,’ as if the
numerical antithesis had a graphic power, and threw
those excellent personages into a charming tableau vi-
vant.” Charles was amused at all this; but he said in
answer, that he never heard a sermon, but it was his own
fault if he did not gain good from it; and he quoted the
words of his father, who, when he ohe day asked him if
so and so had not preached a very good sermon, “ My
dear Charles,” his father had said, “ all sermons are
good.” The words, simple as they were, had retained
a hold on his memory.

Meanwhile, they had proceeded down the forbidden
High Street, and were crossing the bridge, when, on the
opposite side, they saw before them a tall, upright man,
whom Sheffield had no difficulty in recognising as a ba-
chelor of Nun’s Hall, and a bore, at least of the second
magnitude. He was in cap and gown, but went on his
way, as if intending, in that extraordinary guise, to take
a country walk. He took the path which they were
going themselves, and they tried to keep behind him;
but they walked too briskly, and he too leisurely, to al-
low of that. It is very difficult .duly to delineate a bore
in a narrative, for the very reason that he is a bore. A
tale must aim at condensation,but a bore acts in solution.
It is only on the long-run that he is ascertained. Then,
indeed, he is felt; he is oppressive; like the sirocco,
which the native detects at once, while a foreigner is
often at fault. Tenet, occiditque. Did you hear him
make but one speech, perhaps you would say he was a14

LOSS AND GAIN.

pleasant, well-informed man; but when he never cornea
to an end, or has one and the same prose every time you
meet him, or keeps you standing till you are fit to sink,
or holds you fast when you wish to keep an engagement,
or hinders you listening to important conversation,—
then there is no mistake, the truth bursts on you, appa-
rent diroe facies, you are in the clutches of aborg. You
may yield, or you may flee; jou cannot conquer. Hence
it is clear that ashore cannot be represented in a story,
or the story would be the bore as much as he. The
reader, then, must believe this upright Mr. Bateman to
be what otherwise he might not discover, and thank us
for our consideration innotproving as well as asserting it.

Sheffield bowed to him courteously, and would have
proceeded on his way; but Bateman, as became his na-
ture, would not suffer it; he seized him. “ Are you dis-
posed,” he said, “ to look into the pretty chapel we are
restoring on the common ? It is quite a gem—in the
purest style of the fourteenth century. It was in a most
filthy condition, a mere cow-house; but we have made a
subscription, and set it to rights.” “We are bound for
Oxley,” Sheffield answered; “ you would be taking us
out of our way.” “ Hot a bit of it,” said Bateman; “it’s
not a stone’s throw from the road; you must not refuse
me. I’m sure you’ll like it.” He proceeded to give the
history of the chapel—all it had been, all it might have
been, all it was not, all it was to be. “ It is to be a real
specimen of a Catholic chapel,” he said; “ we mean to
make the attempt of getting the Bishop to dedicate it to
the Boyal Martyr—why should not we have our St.
Charles as well as the Bomanists ?—and it will be quite
sweet to hear the vesper-bell tolling over the sullen
moor every evening, in all weathers, and amid all theLOSS AND GAIN.

15

changes and chances of this mortal life.” Sheffield
asked what congregation they expected to collect at that
hour ?	“ That’s a low view,” answered Bateman; “ it

does not signify at all. In real Catholic churches the
number of the congregation is nothing to the purpose;
service is ior those who come, not jor those wnostay
away.” “Well,’’ sard" Sheffield, “I understand what
that means, when a Soman Catholic says it; for a Priest
is supposed to offer sacrifice, which he can do without a
congregation as well as with one. And, again, Catholic
chapels often stand over the bodies of martyrs, or on
some place of miracle, as a record ;_but our service is
‘ Common Prayer,’ and how can you have that without
a congregation r

Bateman replied that, even if members of the Univer-
sity did not drop in, which he expected, at least the bell
would be a memento far and near. “ Ah, I see,” re-
torted Sheffield, “ the use will be the reverse of what you
said just now; it is not for those that come, but for those
who stay away. The congregation is outside, not' in-
side; it’s an outside concern. I once saw a tall church-
tower—so it appeared from the road; but on the sides
you saw it was but a thin wall, made to look like a
tower, in order to give the church an imposing effect.
Do run up such a bit of a wall, and put the bell in it.”
“There’s another reason,” answered Bateman, “for re-
storing the chapel, quite independent of the service. It
has been a chapel from time immemorial, and was con-
secrated by our Catholic forefathers.” Sheffield argued,
that this would be as good a reason for keeping up the
Mass as for keeping up the chapel. “We do keep up
the Mass,” said Bateman; “ we offer our Mass every
Sunday, according to the rite of the English Cyprian, as16

LOSS ATTD GAIN-.

honest Peter Heylin calls him; what would you have
more ?” Whether Sheffield understood this or no, at
least it was beyond Charles. Was the Common Prayer
the English Mass, or the Communion-service, or the Li-
tany, or the sermon, or any part of these ? or were Bate-
man’s words really a confession that there were clergy-
men who actually said the Popish Mass once a week ?
Bateman’s precise meaning, however, is lost to posterity;
for they had by this time arrived at the door of the
chapel. It had once been the chapel of an almshouse; a
small farmhouse stood near; but, for population, it was
plain no “ church accommodation” was wanted. Before
entering, Charles hung back, and whispered to his friend
that he did not know Bateman. An introduction,in con-
sequence, took place. “ Reding of St. Saviour’s—Bate-
man of Nun’s Hallafter which ceremony, in place of
holy water, they managed to enter thechapel in company.

It was as pretty a building as Bateman had led them to
expect, and very prettily done up. There was a stone
altar in the best style, a credence table, a piscina, what
looked like a tabernacle, and a couple of handsome brass
candlesticks. Charles asked the use of the piscina,—he
did not know its name,—and was told that there was al-
ways a piscina in the old churches in England, and that
there could be no proper restoration without it. Next
he asked the meaning of the beautifully wrought closet
or recess above the altar; and received for answer, that
“ our sister churches of the Roman obedience always bad
a tabernacle for reserving the consecrated bread.” Here
Charles was brought to a stand: on which Sheffield
asked the use of the niches; and was told by Bateman,
that images of saints were forbidden by the canon, but
that his friends, in all these matters, did what they could.LOSS AND GAIN.

17

Lastly, he asked the meaning of the candlesticks; and
was told that, Catholicly-minded as their Bishop was,
they had some fear lest he would object to lights in ser-
vice—at least at first: but it was plain that the use of
the candlesticks was to hold candles. Having had their
fill of gazing and admiring, they turned to proceed on
their walk, but could not get off an invitation to break-
fast, in a few days, at Bateman’s lodgings in the Turl.

CHAPTER III.

Neither of the friends had what are called mews in re-
ligion ; by which expression we do not here signify that
neither had taken up a certain line of opinion, though
this was true also; but that neither of them—how could
they at their age ?—had placed his religion on an intel-
lectual basis. It may be as well to state more distinctly
what a “view” is, what it is to be “viewy,” and what
is the state of those who have no “ views.” When per-
sons, then, for the first time look upon the world of po-
litics or religion, all that that they find there meets their
mind’s eye as a landscape addresses itself for the first
time to a person who has just gained his bodily sight.
One thing is as far off as another; there is no perspec-
tive. The connexion of fact with fact, truth with truth,
the bearing of fact upon truth, and truth upon fact, what
leads to what, what are points primary and what se-
condary,—all this they have yet to learn. It is all a
new science to them, and they do not even know their
ignorance of it. Moreover, the world of to-day has no
connexion in their minds with the world of yesterday;
time is not a stream, but stands before them round and

B18

LOSS AND GAIN.

full, like the moon. They do not know what happened
ten years ago, much less the annals of a century; the
past does not live to them in the present; they do not
understand the worth of contested points; names have
no associations for them, and persons kindle no recollec-
tions. They hear of men, and things, and projects, and
struggles, and principles; but every thing comes and goes
like the wind, nothing makes an impression, nothing
penetrates, nothing has its place in their minds. They
locate nothing; they have no system. They hear and
they forget; or they just recollect what they have once
heard, they can’t tell where. Thus they have no con-
sistency in their arguments; that is, they argue one way
to-day, and not exactly the other way to-morrow, but
indirectly the other way, at random. Their lines of
argument diverge; nothing comes to a point; there is
no one centre in which their mind sits, on which their
judgment of men and things proceeds. This is the state
of many men all through life; and miserable politicians
or Churchmen they make, unless by good luck they are
in safe hands, and ruled by others, or are pledged to a
course. Else they are at the mercy of the winds and
waves; and, without being Radical, Whig, Tory, or
Conservative, High Church or Low Church, they do
Whig acts, Tory acts, Catholic acts, and heretical acts,
as the fit takes them, or as events or parties drive them.
And sometimes, when their self-importance is hurt, they
take refuge in the idea that all this is a proof that they
are unfettered, moderate, dispassionate, that they ob-
serve the mean, that they are no “ party menwhen
they are, in fact, the most helpless of slaves; for our
strength in this world is, to be the subjects of the
reason, and our liberty, to be captives of the truth.LOSS AND GAIN.

19

Now Charles Reding, a youth of twenty, could not be
supposed to have much of a view in religion or politics;
but no clever man allows himself to judge of things sim-
ply at hap-hazard; he is obliged, from a sort of self-
respect, to have some rule or other, true or false; and
Charles was very fond of the maxim, which he has al-
ready enunciated, that we must measure people by what
they are, and not by what they are not. He had a great
notion of loving every one—of looking kindly on every
one; he was pierced with the sentiment which he had
seen in a popular volume of poetry, that

“ Christian souls, ....

Though worn and soil’d with sinful clay,

Are yet, to eyes that see them true,

All glistening with baptismal dew.”

He liked, as he walked along the road, and met labourer
or horseman, gentleman or beggar, to say to himself,
“ He is a Christian.’ ’ And when he came to Oxford, he
came there with an enthusiasm so simple and warm as
to be almost childish. He reverenced even the velvet
of the Pro.; nay, the cocked hat which preceded the
preacher had its claim on his deferential regard. With-
out being himself a poet, he was in the season of poetry,
in the sweet spring-time, when the year is most beauti-
ful, because it is new. Novelty was beauty to a heart
so open and cheerful as his; not only because it was
novelty, and had its proper charm as such, but because
when we first see things, we see them in a “ gay con-
fusion,” which is a principal element of the poetical. As
time goes on, and we number and sort and measure
things—as we gain views—we advance towards philo-
sophy and truth, but we recede from poetry.

When we ourselves were young, we once on a time20

LOSS AND GAIN.

walked on a hot summer-day from Oxford to Newington
—a dull road, as any one who has gone it knows; yet
it was new to us ; and we protest* to you, reader, believe
it or not, laugh or not, as you will, to us it seemed on
that occasion quite touchingly beautiful; and a soft me-
lancholy came over us, of which the shadows fall even
now, when we look back on that dusty, weary journey.
And why ? because every object which met us was un-
known and full of mystery. A tree or two in the dis-
tance seemed the beginning of a great wood, or park,
stretching endlessly ; a hill implied a vale beyond, with
that vale’s history; the bye-lanes, with their green
hedges, wound and vanished, yet were not lost to the
imagination. Such was our first journey; but when
we had gone it several times, the mind refused to act,
the scene ceased to enchant, stern reality alone re-
mained ; and we thought it one of the most tiresome,
odious roads we ever had occasion to traverse.

But to return to our story. Such was Reding. But
Sheffield, on the other hand, without possessing any real
view of things more than Charles, was, at this time,
fonder of hunting for views, and more in danger of tak-
ing up false ones. That is, he was “viewy,” in a bad
sense of the word. He was not satisfied intellectually
with things as they are; he was critical, impatient to
reduce things to system, pushed principles too far, was
fond of argument, partly from pleasure in the exercise,
partly because he was perplexed, though he did not lay
any thing very much to heart.

They neither of them felt any special interest in the
controversy going on in the University and country about
High and Low Church. Sheffield had a sort of contempt
for it; and Reding felt it to be bad taste to be unusual orLOSS AND GAIN.

21

prominent in any thing. An Eton acquaintance had
asked him to go and hear one of the principal preachers
of the Catholic party, and offered to introduce him; but
he had declined it. He did not like, he said, mixing
himself up with party; he had come to Oxford to get his
degree, and not to take up opinions; he thought his
father would not relish it; and, moreover, he felt some
little repugnance to such opinions and such people, un-
der the notion that the authorities of the University
were opposed to the ‘whole movement. He could not
help looking at its leaders as demagogues; and towards
demagogues he felt an unmeasured aversion and con-
tempt. He did not see why clergymen, however respect-
able, should be collecting undergraduates about them;
and he heard stories of their way of going on, which did
not please him. Moreover, he did not like the speci-
mens of their followers whom he fell in with; they were
forward, or they “ talked strong,” as it was called; did
ridiculous, extravagant acts; and sometimes neglected
their college duties for things which did not concern
them. He was unfortunate, certainly: for this is a
very unfair account of the most exemplary men of that
day, who doubtless are still, as clergymen or laymen,
the strength of the Anglican Church; but in all col-
lections of men, the straw and rubbish (as Lord Bacon
says) float on the top, while gold and jewels sink and
are hidden. Or, what is more opposite still, many
men, or most men, are a compound of precious and
worthless together, and their worthless swims, and
their precious lies at the bottom.22

LOSS AND GAIN.

CHAPTER IY.

Bateman was one of these composite characters: he had
much good and much cleverness in him; but he was
absurd, and he afforded a subject of conversation to the
two friends as they proceeded on their walk. “ I wish
there was less of fudge and humbug every where,”
said Sheffield; “ one might shovel off cart loads from
this place, and not miss it.” “ If you had your way,”
answered Charles, “ you would scrape off the roads till
there was nothing to walk on. We are forced to walk
on what you call humbug; we put it under our feet, but
we use it.” “ I cannot think that; it’s like doing evil
that good may come. I see shams every where. I go
into St. Mary’s, and I hear men spouting out common-
places in a deep or a shrill voice, or with slow, clear,
quiet emphasis and significant eyes, as that Bampton
preacher not long ago, who assured us, apropos of the
resurrection of the body, that ‘ all attempts to resusci-
tate the inanimate corpse by natural methods had
hitherto been experimentally abortive.’ I go into the
place where degrees are given—the Convocation, I
think—and there one hears a deal of unmeaning Latin
for hours, graces, dispensations, and Proctors walking
up and down for nothing; all in order to keep up a sort
of ghost of things passed away for centuries, while the
real work might be done in a quarter of an hour. I fall
in. with this Bateman, and he talks to me of rood-lofts
without roods, and piscinae without water, and niches
without images, and candlesticks without lights, and
masses without Popery; till I feel, with Shakespeare,
that‘all the world’s a stage.’ Well, I go to Shaw,
Turner, and Brown, very different men, pupils of Dr.LOSS AND GAIN.

23

Gloucester—you know whom I mean—and they tell us
that we ought to put up crucifixes by the wayside, in
order to excite religious feeling.”

“Well, I really think you are hard on all these
people,” said Charles; “it is all very much like decla-
mation ; you would destroy externals of every kind.
You are like the man, in one of Miss Edgeworth’s
novels, who shut his ears_tfl_lJifijaiLsigJ- that he might
ljjjgha^jje^ancggg^’ “ What is the music to which
I close my ears ? ” asked Sheffield. “ To the meaning
of those various acts,” answered Charles; “ the pious
feeling which accompanies the sight of the image is the
music.” “ To those who have the pious feeling, cer-
tainly,’’ said Sheffield; “ but to put up images in Eng-
land in order to create the feeling, is like dancing to
create music.” “ I think you are hard upon England,”
replied Charles; “ we are a religious people.” “ Well,
I will put it differently: do you like music?” “You
ought to know,” said Charles, “ whom I have frightened
so often with my fiddle.” “Do you like dancing?”
“ To tell the truth,” said Charles, “ I don’t.” “ Nor do
I,” said Sheffield; “ it makes me laugh to think what T
have done, when a boy, to escape dancing; there is
something so absurd in it; and one had to be civil and
to duck to young girls who were either prim or pert. I
have behaved quite rudely to them sometimes, and then
have been annoyed at my ungentlemanlikeness, and not
known how to get out of the scrape.” “ Well, I didn’t
know we were so like each other in any thing,” said
Charles; “ oh, the misery I have endured, in having to
stand up to dance, and to walk about with a partner!—
every body looking at me, and I so awkward. It has
been a torture to me days before and after.”24

LOSS AND GAIN.

They had by this time come up to the foot of the
rough rising ground which leads to the sort of table-land,
on the edge of which Oxley is placed; and they stood
still a while to see some equestrians take the hurdles.
They then mounted the hill, and looked back upon Ox-
ford. “ Perhaps you call those beautiful spires and
towers a sham,” said Charles, “because you see their
tops and not their bottoms ? ” “ Whereabouts were we
in our argument ?” said the other, reminded that they
had been wandering from it for the last ten minutes;
“ Oh, I recollect; I know what I was at. I was saying
that you liked music, but didn’t like dancing; music
leads another person to dance, but not you; and dancing
does not increase but diminishes the intensity of the
pleasure you find in music. In like manner, it is a mere
piece of pedantry to make a religious nation, like the
English, more religious by placing images in the streets;
this is not the English way, and only offends us. If it
were our way, it would come naturally without any one
telling us. As music incites to dancing, so religion
would lead to images. But as dancing does not improve
music to those who do not like dancing, so ceremonies
do not improve religion to those who do not like cere-
monies.” “Then do you mean,” said Charles, “that
the English Romanists are shams, because they use cru-
cifixes?” “Stop there,” said Sheffield; “now you are
getting upon a different subject. They believe that
there is virtue in images; that indeed is absurd in them,
but it makes them quite consistent in honouring them.
They do not put up images as outward shows, merely to
create feelings in the minds of beholders, as Gloucester
would do, but they in good downright earnest worship
images, as being more than they seem, as being not aLOSS AND GAIN.

25

mere outside show. They pay them a religious worship,
as having been handled by great saints years ago, as
having been used in pestilences, as having wrought
miracles, as having moved their eyes or bowed their
heads; or, at least, as having been blessed by the
priest, and been brought into connexion with invisible
grace. This is superstitious; but it is real.”

Charles was not satisfied. “ An image is a mode of
teaching,” he said; “ do you mean to say that a person
is a sham merely because he mistakes the particular mode
of teaching best suited to his own country ?”	“ I did

not say that Dr. Gloucester was a sham,” answered
Sheffield; “ but that that mode of teaching of his was
among Protestants a sham and a humbug.” “ But this
principle will carry you too far, and destroy itself,” said
Charles. “ Don’t you recollect what Thompson quoted
the other day out of Aristotle, which he had lately be-
gun in lecture with Vincent, and which we thought so
acute—that habits are created by those very acts in
which they manifest themselves when created? We learn
to swim well by trying to swim. Now Bateman, doubt-
less, wishes to introduce piscinae and tabernacles; and to
wait, before beginning, till they are received, is like not
going into the water till you can swim.” “ Well, but
what is Bateman the better when his piscina is univer-
sal?” asked Sheffield; “what does it mean? In the
Romish Church it has a use, I know—I don’t know
what—but it comes into the Mass. But if Bateman
makes piscinae universal among us, what has he achieved
but the reign of a universal humbug ? ” “ But, my dear
Sheffield,’ ’ answered Reding, “ consider how many things
there are, which, in the course of time, have altered their
original meaning, and yet have a meaning, though a26

LOSS AND GAIN.

changed one, still. The judge’s wig is no sham, yet it
has a history. The Queen, at her coronation, is said
to wear a Roman Catholic vestment, is that a sham ?
Does it not still typify and impress upon us the ‘ divinity
that doth hedge a king,’ though it has lost the meaning
which the Church of Rome gave it ? Or are you of the
number of those, who, according to the witticism, think
majesty, when deprived of its externals, a jest ? ” “ Then
you defend the introduction of unmeaning piscin® and
candlesticks?” “I think,” answered Charles, “that
there’s a great difference between reviving and retain-
ing ; it may he natural to retain, even while the use
fails, unnatural to revive when it has failed; hut this
is a question of discretion and judgment.” “ Then you
give it against Bateman,” said Sheffield.

A slight pause ensued ; then Charles added, “ But
perhaps these men actually do wish to introduce the
realities as well as the externals: perhaps they wish to
use the piscina as well as to have it. . . . Sheffield,”
he continued abruptly, “ why are not canonicals a sham,
if piscin® are shams ?” “ Canonicals,” said Sheffield, as
if thinking about them; “ no, canonicals are no sham;
for preaching, I suppose, is the highest ordinance in our
Church, and has the richest dress. The robes of a great
preacher cost, I know, many pounds; for there was one
near us, who, on leaving, had a present from the ladies
of an entire set, and a dozen pair of worked slippers
into the bargain. But it’s all fitting, if preaching is the
great office of the clergy. Next comes the Sacrament,
and has the surplice and hood. And hood,” he repeated,
musing; “ what’s that for ? no, it’s the scarf. The
hood is worn in the University pulpit; what is the scarf?
it belongs to chaplains, I believe, that is, to persons ; ILOSS AND GAIN.

27

can’t make a view out of it.” “ My dear Sheffield,”
said Charles, “ you have cut your own throat. Here you
have been trying to give a sense to the clerical dress,
and cannot; are you then prepared to call it a sham ?
Answer me this single question—why does a clergyman
wear a surplice when he reads prayers ? Nay, I will
put it more simply—why can only a clergyman read
prayers in Church P why cannot I?” Sheffield hesi-
tated, and looked serious. “ Do you know,” he said,
“ you have just pitched on Jeremy Bentham’s objection.
In his Church of Englandism, he proposes, if I recollect
rightly, that a parish-boy should be taught to read the
Liturgy; and he asks, Why send a person to the Uni-
versity for three or four years at an enormous expense,
why teach him Latin and Greek, on purpose, to read what
any boy could be taught to read at a dame’s school ?
What is the virtue of a clergyman’s reading ? Some-
thing of this kind, Bentham says; and,” he added
slowly, “ to tell the truth, I don’t know how to answer
him.” Reding was surprised, and shocked, and puzzled
too; he did not know what to say; when the conver-
sation was, perhaps fortunately, interrupted.

CHAPTER V.

Eveby year brings changes and reforms. We do not
know what is the state of Oxley Church now; it may
have rood-loft, piscina, sedilia, all new; or it may be re-
formed backwards, the seatson principle turning from the
Communion-table, and the pulpit planted in the middle
of the aisle; but at the time when these two young men
walked through the churchyard, there was nothing very28

LOSS AND GAIN.

good or very bad to attract them within the building;
and they were passing on, when they observed, coming
out of the church, what Sheffield called an elderly don,
a fellow of a college, whom Charles knew. He was a
man of family, and had some little property of his own,
had been a contemporary of his father’s at the Univer-
sity, and had from time to time been a guest at the par-
sonage. Charles had, in consequence, known him from
a boy; and now, since he came into residence, he had,
as was natural, received many small attentions from him.
Once, when he was late for his own hall, he had given
him his dinner in his rooms; he had taken him out on
a fishing expedition towards Faringdon ; and had pro-
mised him tickets for some ladies, lionesses of his, who
were coming up to the Commemoration. He was a
shrewd, easy-tempered, free-spoken man, of small de-
sires and no ambition; of no very keen sensibilities or
romantic delicacies, and very little religious pretension;
that is, though unexceptionable in his deportment, he
hated the show of religion, and was impatient at those
who affected it. He had known the University for thirty
years, and formed a right estimate of most things in it.
He had come out to Oxley to take a funeral for a friend,
and was now returning home. He hallooed to Charles,
who, though feeling at first awkward on finding himself
with two such different friends and in two such different
relations, was, after a time, partially restored to himself
by the unconcern of Mr. Malcolm; and the three walked
home together. Yet, even to the last, he did not quite
know how and where to walk, and how to carry himself;
particularly when they got near Oxford, and he fell in
with various parties who greeted him in passing.

Charles, by way of remark, said they had been lookingLOSS AND GAIN.

29

in at a pretty little chapel on the common, which was
now in the course of repair. Mr. Malcolm laughed.
“So, Charles,” he said, “you're bit with the new
fashion.” Charles coloured, and asked, “What fashion?”
adding, that a friend, by accident, had taken them in.
“You ask what fashion,” said Mr. Malcolm; “why,
the newest, latest fashion. This is a place of fashions;
there have been many fashions in my time. The greater
part of the residents, that is, the boys, change once in
three years; the fellows and tutors, perhaps, in half a
dozen; and every generation has its own fashion.
There is no principle of stability in Oxford, except the
Heads, and they are always the same, and always will be
the same to the end of the chapter. What is in now,”
he asked, “ among you youngsters ? drinking or cigars ? ”
Charles laughed modestly, and said he hoped drinking
had gone out every where. “ Worse things may come
in,” said Mr. Malcolm ; •“ but there are fashions every
where. There was once a spouting club, perhaps it is in
favour still; before it was the music-room. Once geo-
logy was all the rage; now it is theology ; soon it will
be architecture, or medieval antiquities, or editions and
codices. Each wears out in its turn; all depends on one
or two active men; but the secretary takes a wife, or
the professor gets a stall; and then the meetings are
called irregularly, and nothing is done in them, and so
gradually the affair dwindles and dies.”	'

Sheffield asked whether the present movement had
not spread too widely through the country for such a
termination ; he did not know much about it himself,
but the papers were full of it, and it was the talk of
every neighbourhood; it was not confined to Oxford.

“ I don’t know about the country,” said Mr. Malcolm,30

LOSS AND GAIN.

“ that is a large question; but it has not the elements of
stability here. These gentlemen will take livings and
marry, and that will be the end of the business. I am
not speaking against them; they are, I believe, very
respectable men; but they are riding on the spring-
tide of a fashion.”

Charles said it was a nuisance to see the party-spirit
it introduced. Oxford ought to be a place of quiet
and study; peace and the Muses always went together;
whereas there was talk, talk, in every quarter. A man
could not go about his duties in a natural way, and
take every one as he came, but was obliged to take
part in questions, and to consider points, which he
might wish to put from him, and must sport an opinion
when he really had none to give.

Mr. Malcolm assented in a half-absent way, looking at
the view before him, and seemingly enjoying it. “ Peo-
ple call this county ugly,” said he, “ and perhaps it is ;
but whether I am used to it or no, I always am pleased
with it. The lights are always new; and thus the land-
scape, if it deserves the name, is always presented in a
new dress. I have known Shotover there take the most
opposite hues, sometimes purple, sometimes a bright
saffron or tawny orange.” Here he stopped: “ Tes,
you speak of party-spirit; very true, there’s a good deal
of it. . . No, I don’t think there’s much,” he continued,
rousing ; “ certainly there is more division just at this
minute in Oxford, but there always is division, always
rivalry. The separate Societies have their own interests
and honour to maintain, and quarrel, as the orders do
in the Church of Rome. No, that’s too grand a com-
parison ; rather, Oxford is like an almshouse for clergy-
men’s widows. Self-importance, jealousy, tittle-tattleLOSS AND GAIN.

31

are the order of the day. It has always been so in my
time. The two great ladies, Mrs. Vice-Chancellor and
Mrs. Divinity-Professor can’t agree, and have followings
respectively: or Vice-Chancellor himself, being a new
broom, sweeps all the young masters clean out of Con-
vocation House, to their great indignation; or Mr.
Slaney, Dean of St. Peter’s, does not scruple to say in
a stage-coach that Mr. Wood is no scholar; on which
the said Wood calls him in return ‘ slanderous Slaney;’
or the elderly Mr. Barge, late Senior Pellow of St. Mi-
chael’s, thinks that his pretty bride has not been received
with due honours; er Dr. Crotchet is for years kept
out of his destined bishopric by a sinister influence; or
Mr. Professor Carraway has been infamously shown up,
in the ‘ Edinburgh ’ by an idle fellow whom he plucked
in the schools ; or (majora movemus) three colleges in-
terchange a moral vow of opposition to a fourth ; or the
young working masters conspire against the Heads.
Now, however, we are improving; if we must quarrel,
let it be the rivalry of intellect and conscience, rather
than of interest or temper; let us contend for things,
not for shadows.”

Sheffield was pleased at this, and ventured to say that
the present state of things was more real, and therefore
more healthy. Mr. Malcolm did not seem to hear him,
for he did not reply; and, as they were now approach-
ing the bridge again, the conversation stopped. Shef-
field looked slyly at Charles, as Mr. Malcolm proceeded
with them up High Street; and both of them had the
triumph and the amusement of being convoyed safely
past a Proctor, who was patrolling it, under the pro-
tection of a Master.32

LOSS AND GAIN.

CHAPTER VI.

The walk to Oxley had not been the first or the second
occasion on which Charles had, in one shape or other,
encountered Sheffield’s views about realities and shams ;
and his preachments had begun to make an impression
on him ; that is, he felt that there was truth in them at
bottom, and a truth new to him. He was not a person
to let a truth sleep in his mind, though it did not vege-
tate very quickly ; it was sure ultimately to be pursued
into its consequences, and to affect his existing opinions.
In the instancebefore us, he saw Sheffield’s principle was
more or less antagonistic to his own favourite maxim,
that it was a duty to be pleased with every one. Con-
tradictions could not both be real: when an affirmative
was true, a negative was false. All doctrines could not
be equally sound : there was a right and a wrong. The
theory of dogmatic truth, as opposed to latitudinarianism
(he did not know their names or their history, or suspect
what was going on within him), had, in the course of
these his first terms, gradually begun to energise in
his mind. Let him but see the absurdities of the
latitudinarian principle, when carried out, and he is
likely to be still more opposed to it.

Bateman, among his peculiarities, had a notion that
bringing persons of contrary sentiments together was the
likeliest way of making a party agreeable, or at least
useful. He had done his best to give his breakfast,
to which our friends were invited, this element of per-
fection ; not, however, to his own satisfaction; for
with all his efforts, he had but picked up Mr. Ereeborn,
a young Evangelical Master, with whom SheffieldLOSS AND GAIN.

33

was acquainted; a sharp, but not very wise freshman,
who, having been spoiled at home, and having plenty
of money, professed to -be (Esthetic, and kept his
college authorities in a perpetual fidget, lest he should
some morning wake up a Papist; and a friend of his,
a nice modest-looking youth, who, like a mouse, had
keen darting eyes, and ate his bread and butter in
absolute silence.

They had hardly seated themselves, and Sheffield
was pouring out coffee, and a plate of muffins was going
round, and Bateman was engaged, saucepan in hand,
in the operation of landing his eggs, now boiled, upon
the table, when our flighty youth, whose name was
White, observed how beautiful the Catholic custom was
of making eggs the emblem of the Easter-festival. “ It
is truly Catholic,” said he ; “ for it is retained in parts
of England, you have it in Russia, and in Rome itself,
where an egg is served up on every plate through the
Easter-week, after being, I believe, blessed; and it is as
expressive and significant as it is Catholic.” “Beautiful
indeed! ’ ’ said their host; “ so pretty, so sweet; I wonder
whether our Reformers thought of it, or the profound
Hooker,—he was full of types,—or Jewell. Tou recol-
lect the staff Jewell gave him: that was a type. It was
like the sending of Elisha’s staff by his servant to the
dead child.” “ Oh, my dear, dear Bateman,” cried
Sheffield, “you are making Hooker Gehazi.” “ That’s
just the upshot of such trifling,” said Mr. Ereebom;
“ you never know where to find it; it proves any thing,
and disproves any thing.” “That is only till it’s
sanctioned,” said White; “ when the Catholic Church
sanctions it, we’re safe.” “Yes,we’re safe,” said Bate-
man; “it’s safe when it’s Catholic.” “Yes,” con-

o34

LOSS AND GAIN.

tinued White, “ things change their nature altogether,
when they are taken up by the Catholic Churcb: that’s
how we are allowed to do evil, that good may come.”
“ What’s that ?” said Bateman. “ Why,” said White,
‘‘ the Churcb makes evil good.” “ My dear White,”
said Bateman gravely, “ that’s going too far; it is in-
deed.” Mr. Freeborn suspended his breakfast opera-
tions, and sat back in his chair. “ Why,” continued
White, “ is not idolatry wrong ? yet image-worship is
right.” Mr. Freeborn was in a state of collapse. “ That’s
a bad instance, White,” said Sheffield; “there orcpeople
in the world who are uncatholic enough to think image-
worship is wrong,as well as idolatry.” “ A mere Jesuiti-
cal distinction,” said Freeborn with emotion. “ Well,”
said White, who did not seem in great awe of the
young M.A., though some years, of course, his senior,
“ I will take a better instance: who does not know that
baptism gives grace ? yet there were heathen baptismal
rites, which, of course, were devilish.” “ I should not
be disposed, Mr. White, to grant you so much as you
would wish,” said Freeborn, “ about the virtue of bap-
tism.” “Not about Christian baptism ?” asked White.
“It is easy,” answered Freeborn, “to mistake the sign for
the thing signified.” “ Not about Catholic baptism ?”
repeated White. “ Catholic baptism is a mere deceit
and delusion,” retorted Mr. Freeborn. “ Oh, my dear
Freeborn,” interposed Bateman, “nowyou are going too
far; you are indeed.” “Catholic, Catholic; I don’t
know what you mean,” said Freeborn. “ I mean,” said
White, “ the baptism of the One Catholic Church, of
which the Creed speaks: it’s quite intelligible.” “ But
what doyou mean by the Catholic Church ? ’ ’ asked Free,
born. “The Anglican,” answered Bateman. “TheLOSS AND GAIN.

35

Roman,” answered White; both in the same breath.
There was a general laugh. “ There is nothing to laugh
at,” said Bateman; “ Anglican and Roman are one.”
“ One ! impossible,” cried Sheffield. “ Much worse
than impossible,” observed Mr. Freeborn. “I should
make a distinction,” said Bateman: “ I should say, they
are one, except the corruptions of the Romish Church.”
“That is, one except where they differ,” said Sheffield.
“ Precisely so,” said Bateman. “ Rather, /should say,”
objected Mr. Freeborn, “ two except where they agree.’*
“ That’s just the issue,” said Sheffield; “ Bateman says
that the Churches are one except where they are two;
and Freeborn says that they are two except where
they are one.”

It was a relief at this moment that the cook’s boy
came in with a dish of hot sausages; but though a re-
lief, it was not a diversion; the conversation proceeded.
Two persons did not like it; Freeborn, who was simply
disgusted at the doctrine, and Reding, who thought it a
bore; yet it was the bad luck of Freeborn forthwith to
set Charles against him, as well as the rest; and to re-
move the repugnance which he had to engage in the
dispute. Freeborn, in fact, thought theology itself a
mistake, as substituting, as he considered, worthless
intellectual notions for the vital truths of religion; so he
now went on to observe, putting down his knife and
fork, that it really was to him inconceivable, that real
religion should depend on metaphysical distinctions, or
outward observances; that it was quite a different thing
in Scripture; that Scripture said much of faith and holi-
ness, but hardly a word about churches and forms. He
proceeded to say that it was the great and evil tendency
of the human mind to interpose between itself and its36

LOSS AND GAIN.

Creator some self-invented mediator, and it did not
matter at all whether that human device was a rite, or
a creed, or a form of prayer, or good works, or com-
munion with particular churches—all were but “ flatter-
ing unctions to the soul,” if they were considered neces-
sary ; the only safe way of using them was to use them
with the feeling that you might dispense with them;
that none of them went to the root of the matter, for
that faith, that is, firm belief that God had forgiven you,
was the one thing needful; that where that one thing
was present,everything else was superfluous; that where
it was wanting, nothing else availed. So strongly did
he hold this, that (he confessed he put it pointedly,
but still not untruly), where true faith was present, a
person might be any thing in profession ; an Arminian,
a Calvinist, an Episcopalian, a Presbyterian, a Sweden-
borgian—nay, a Unitarian—he would go further, look-
ing at White, a Papist, yet be in a state of salvation.

Ereeborn came out rather more strongly that in his
sober moments he would have approved; but he was a
little irritated, and wished to have his turn of speaking.
It was altogether a great testification. “ Thank you for
your liberality to the poor Papists,” said White; “it
seems they are safe if they are hypocrites, professing to
be Catholics, while they are Protestants in heart.”
“ Unitarians, too,” said Sheffield, “ are debtors to your
liberality; it seems a man need not fear to believe too
little, so that he feels a good deal.” “ Rather,” said
White, “ if he believes himself forgiven, he need not be-
lieve any thing else.” Reding put in his word; he
said that in the Prayer-book, belief in the Holy Trinity
was represented, not as an accident, but as “ before all
things ” necessary to salvation. “ That’s not a fairLOSS AND GAIN.

37

answer, Reding,” said Sheffield ; “what Mr. Freeborn
observed was, that there’s no creed in the Bible ; and
you answer that there is a creed in the Prayer-book.”
“ Then the Bible says one thing, and the Prayer-book
another,” said Bateman. “No,” answered Freeborn;
“ the Prayer-book only deduces from Scripture ; the
Athanasian Creed is a human invention; true, but human,
and to be received, as one of the Articles expressly says,
because ‘ founded on Scripture.’ Creeds are useful in
their place, so is the Church; but neither Creed nor
Church is religion.” “ Then why do you make so much
of your doctrine of ‘ faith only ? ’” said Bateman; “ for
that'is not in Scripture, and is but a human deduction.”
“My doctrine!” cried Freeborn; “why it’s in the
Articles; the Articles expressly say that we are justi-
fied by faith only.” “ The Articles are not Scripture
any more than the Prayer-book,” said Sheffield. “ Nor
do the Articles say that the doctrine they propound is
necessary for salvation,” added Bateman.

All this was very unfair on Freeborn, though he had
provoked it. Here were four persons on him at once,
and the silent fifth apparently a sympathiser. Sheffield
talked through malice; White from habit; Reding came
in because he could not help it; and Bateman spoke on
principle; he had a notion that he was improving Free-
born’s views by this process pf badgering. At least he
did not improve his temper, which was suffering. Most
of the party were undergraduates; he (Freeborn) was
a Master; it was too bad of Bateman. He finished in
silence his sausage, which had got quite cold. The con-
versation flagged; there was a rise in toast-and muffins;
coffee-cups were put aside, and tea flowed freely.33

LOSS AND GAIN.

CHAPTER VII.

Ereeborn did not like to be beaten; he began again.
Religion, he said, was a matter of the heart; no one
could interpret Scripture rightly, whose heart was not
right. Till our eyes were enlightened, to dispute about
the sense of Scripture, to attempt to deduce from Scrip-
ture, was beating about the bush : it was like the blind
disputing about colours. “ If this is true,” said Bate-
man, “ no one ought to argue about religion at all; but
you were the first to do so, Ereeborn.” “ Of course,”
answered Ereeborn, “those who have found the truth
are the very persons to argue, for they have the gift.”
“And the very last persons to persuade,” said Sheffield;
“for they have the gift all to themselves.” “ Therefore
true Christians should argue with each other, and with
no one else,” said Bateman. “But those are the very
persons who don’t want it,” said Sheffield; “reasoning
must be for the unconverted, not for the converted. It
is the means of seeking.” Ereeborn persisted that the
reason of the unconverted was carnal, and that such
could not understand Scripture. “ I have always
thought,” said Reding, “ that reason was a general gift,
though faith is a special and personal one. If faith is
really rational, all ought to see that it is rational;
else, from the nature of the case, it is not rational.”
“But St. Paul says,” answered Freeborn, “ that ‘ to the
natural man the things of the Spirit are foolishness.’ ”
“But how are we to arrive at truth at all,” said Reding,
“except by reason? it is the appointed method for our
guidance. Brutes go by instinct, men by reason.”
They had fallen on a difficult subject; all were some-
what puzzled except "White, who had not been attending,LOSS AND GAIN.

39

and was simply wearied; lie now interposed. “It would
be a dull world,” he said, “if men went by reason:
they may think they do, but they don’t. Really, they
are led by their feelings, their affections, by the sense
of the beautiful, and the good, and the holy. Religion
is the beautiful; the clouds, sun, and sky, the fields and
the woods, are religion.” “ This would make all re-
ligions true,” said Freeborn, “ good and bad.” “ No,”
answered White, “ heathen rites are bloody and impure,
not beautiful; and Mahometanism is as cold and as dry
as any Calvinistic meeting. The Mahometans have no
altars or priests, nothing but a pulpit and a preacher.”
“Like St. Mary’s,” said Sheffield. “ Very like,” said
White; “ we have no life or poetry in the Church of
England; the Catholic Church alone is beautiful. You
would see what I mean if you went into a foreign ca-
thedral, or even into one of the Catholic churches in our
large towns. The celebrant, deacon, and subdeacon,
acolytes with lights, the incense, and the chanting—all
combine to one end, one act of worship. You feel it is
really a worshipping; every sense, eyes, ears, smell,
are made to know that worship is going on.. The laity
on the floor saying their beads, or making their acts ;
the choir singing out the Kyrie; and the priest and his
assistants bowing low, and saying the Conjiteor to each
other. This is worship, and it is far above reason.”
This was spoken with all his heart; but it was quite
out of keeping with the conversation which had preceded
it, and White’s poetry wras almost as disagreeable to the
party as Freeborn’s prose. “ White, you should turn
Catholic out and out,” said Sheffield. “ My dear good
fellow,” said Bateman, “think what you are saying.
You can’t really have gone to a schismatical chapel.40

LOSS AND GAIN.

Oh, for shame!” Freeborn observed gravely, that if
the two churches were one, as had been maintained, he
could not see, do what he would, why it was wrong to
go to and fro from one to the other. “ You forget,”
said Bateman to White, “ you have, or might have, all
this in your own church, without the Romish corrup-
tions.” “As to the Romish corruptions,” answered
White, “I know very little about them.” Freeborn
groaned audibly. “ I know very little about them,” re-
peated White eagerly, “very little; but what is that
to the purpose ? We must take things as we find them.
I don’t like what is bad in the Catholic Church, if there
is bad, but what is good. I do not go to it for what is bad,
but for what is good. You can’t deny that what I admire
is very good and beautiful. You try to introduce it into
your own church. You would give your ears, you know
you would, to hear the Dies irae." Here a general burst
of laughter took place. White was an Irishman. It was
a happy interruption; the party rose up from table, and
a tap at that minute, which sounded at the door, suc-
ceeded in-severing the thread of the conversation.

It was a printseller’s man with a large book of plates.
“Well timed,” said Bateman; — “put them down,
Baker: or rather give them to me ;—I can take the
opinion of you men on a point I have much at heart.
You know I wanted you, Freeborn, to go with me to see
my chapel; Sheffield and Reding have looked into it.
Well now, just see here.” He opened the portfolio ; it
contained views of the Campo Santo at Pisa. The
leaves were slowly turned over in silence, the spectators
partly admiring, partly not knowing what to think,partly
wondering at what was coming. “ What do you think
my plan is?” he continued. “You twitted me, Shef-LOSS AND GAIN.

41

field, because my chapel would be useless. Now I mean
to get a cemetery attached to it; there is plenty of land;
and then the chapel will become a chantry. But now,
what will you say if we have a copy of these splendid
medieval monuments round the burial-place, both sculp-
ture and painting ? Now, Sheffield, Mr. Critic, what
do you say to that?” “A most admirable plan,” said
Sheffield, “ and quite removes my objections. ... A
chantry! what is that? Don’t they say Mass in it
for the dead ?”	“ Oh, no, no, no,” said Bateman, in

fear of Freeborn; “we’ll have none of your Popery.
It will be a simple guileless chapel, in which the Church
service will be read.” Meanwhile Sheffield was slowly
turning over the plates. He stopped at one. “ What
will you do with that figure ?” he said, pointing to a
drawing of the Madonna. “ Oh, it will be best, most
prudent, to leave it out; certainly, certainly.” Shef-
field soon began again: “ But look here, my good
fellow, what do you do with these saints and angels ?
do see, why here’s a complete legend; do you mean to
have this ? Here’s a set of miracles, and a woman in-
voking a saint in heaven.” Bateman looked cautiously
at them, and did not answer. He would have shut the
book, but Sheffield wished to see some more. Mean-
while he said, “ Oh, yes, true, there are some things;
but I have an expedient for all this; I mean to make
it all allegorical. The Blessed Virgin shall be the
Church, and the saints shall be cardinal and other vir-
tues ; and as to that saint’s life, St. Banieri’s, it shall be
a Catholic ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress.’ ”	“ Good! then you

must drop all these Popes and Bishops, copes and
chalices,” said Sheffield ; “ and have their names written
under the rest, that people mayn’t take them for saints42

LOSS AND GATN.

and angels. Perhaps you had better have scrolls from
their mouths, in old English. This St. Thomas is stout;
make him say, ‘ I am Mr. Dreadnought,’ or ‘ I am Giant
Despair;’ and, since this beautiful saint bears a sort of
dish, make her ‘Mrs. Creature Comfort.’ But look
here,” he continued, “a whole set of devils; are these
to be painted up ?” Bateman attempted forcibly to shut
the book; Sheffield went on : “ St. Anthony’s tempta-
tions ; what’s this ? Here’s the fiend in jthe shape of a
cat on a wine-barrel.” “ Really, really,” said Bateman,
disgusted and getting possession of it, “you are quite
offensive, quite. We will look at them when you are
more serious.” Sheffield indeed was very provoking,
and Bateman more good-humoured than many persons
would have been in his place. Meanwhile Freeborn,
who had had his gown in his hand the last two minutes,
nodded to his host, and took his departure by himself;
and White and Willis soon followed in company.

“ Really,” said Bateman to Sheffield, when they were
gone, “ you and White, each in his own way, are so
very rash in your mode of speaking, and before other
people too. I wished to teach Freeborn a little good Ca-
tholicism, and you have spoilt all. I hoped something
would have come out of this breakfast. But only think
of White! it will all out. ’Freeborn will tell it to his
set. It is very bad, very bad indeed. And you, my
friend, are not much better; never serious. What could
you mean by saying that our church is not one with the
Romish ? It was giving Freeborn such an advantage.”
Sheffield looked provokingly easy; and, leaning with his
back against the mantelpiece, and his coat-tail almost
playing with the spout of the kettle, replied, “ Tou had
a most awkward team to drive.” Then he added, look-LOSS AND GAIN.

43

ing sideways at him, with his head back, “And why
had you, 0 most correct of men, the audacity to say that
the English Church and the Eomish Church were one ?”
“ It must be so,” answered Bateman; “ there is but one
church—the Creed says so; would you make two ?”
“ I don’t speak of doctrine,” said Sheffield, “ but of fact.
I didn’t mean to say that there were two churches ; nor
to deny that there was one church. I but denied the
fact, that what are evidently two bodies were one body.”
Bateman thought awhile; and Charles employed him-
self in scraping down the soot from the back of the
chimney with the poker. He did not wish to speak;
but he was not sorry to listen to such an argument.

“ My good fellow,” said Bateman, in a tone of instruc-
tion, “ you are making a distinction between a church
and a body, which I don’t quite comprehend. You say
that there are two bodies, and yet but one church. If
so, the church is not a body, but something abstract, a
mere name, a general idea ; is that your meaning ? if
so, you are an honest Calvinist.” “You are another,”
answered Sheffield; “for if you make two visible
churches, English and Eomish, to be one church, that
one church must be invisible, not visible. Thus, if I hold
an abstract church, you hold an invisible one.” “ I do
not see that,” said Bateman. “ Prove the two churches
to be one,” said Sheffield, “and then I’ll prove some-
thing else.” “ Some paradox,” said Bateman. “ Of
course,” answered Sheffield, “a huge one; but yours, not
mine. Prove the English and Eomish Churches to be in
any Bense one, and I will prove by parallel arguments
that in the same sense we and the Wesleyans are one.”

This was a fair challenge. Bateman, however, sud-
denly put on a demure look, and was silent. “ We are44

LOSS AND GAIN.

on sacred subjects,” he said at length, in a subdued tone,
“ we are on very sacred subjects ; we must be reverent,”
and he drew a very long face. Sheffield laughed out,
nor could Reding stand it. “ "What is it ?” cried Shef-
field ; “ don’t be hard with me; what have I done ?
"Where did the sacredness begin ? I eat my words.”
“ Oh, he meant nothing,” said Charles, “ indeed he did
not; he’s more serious than he seems ; do answer him;
I am interested.” “ Really I do wish to treat the sub-
ject gravely,” said Sheffield; “I will begin again. I
am very Borry, indeed I am. Let me put the objec-
tion more reverently.” Bateman relaxed: “My good
Sheffield,” he said, “ the thing is irreverent, not the
manner. It is irreverent to liken your holy mother to
the Wesleyan schismatics.” “ I repent, I do indeed,”
said Sheffield; “ it was a wavering of faith ; it was
very unseemly, I confess it. What can I say more ?
Look at me; won’t this do ? But now tell me, do tell
me, how are we one body with the Romanists, yet the
Wesleyans not one body with us ?” Bateman looked at
him, and was satisfied with the expression of his face.
“It’s a strange question for you to ask,” he said; “I
fancied you were a sharper fellow. Don’t you see that we
have the apostolical succession as well as the Roman-
ists?” “ But Romanists say,” answered Sheffield, “that
that is not enough for unity ; that we ought to be in
communion with the Pope.” “ That’s their mistake,”
answered Bateman. “ That’s just what the Wesleyans
say of us,” retorted Sheffield, “ when we won’t acknow-
ledge their succession; they say it’s our mistake.”
“ Their succession!” cried Bateman ; “ they have no
succession.” “ Tes they have,” said Sheffield; “ they
have a ministerial succession.” “ It isn’t apostolical,”LOSS AND GAIN.

45

answered Bateman. “ Tes, but it is evangelical, a suc-
cession of doctrine,” said Sheffield. “ Doctrine! Evan-
gelical !” cried Bateman ; “ who ever heard ! that’s not
enough; doctrine is not enough without bishops.” “And
succession is not enough without the Pope,” answered
Sheffield. “They act against the bishops,” said Bate-
man, not quite seeing whither he was going. “And we act
against the Pope,” said Sheffield. “¥e say that the
Pope isn’t necessary,” said Bateman. “And they say
that bishops are not necessary,” returned Sheffield.

They were out of breath, and paused to see where they
stood. Presently Bateman said, “ My good sir, this is a
question oifact, not of argumentative cleverness. The
question is, whether it is not true that Bishops are neces-
sary to the notion of a Church, and whether it is not
false that Popes are necessary.” “ No, no,” cried Shef-
field, “ the question is this, whether obedience to our
Bishops is not necessary to make Wesleyans one body
with us, and obedience to their Pope necessary to make
us one body with the Romanists. You maintain the one,
and deny the other; I maintain both. Maintain both,
or deny both: I am consistent; you are inconsistent.”
Bateman was puzzled. “ In a word,” Sheffield added,
“succession is not unity,any more than doctrine.” “Not
unity ? What then is unity ?” asked Bateman. “ One-
ness of government,” answered Sheffield.

Bateman thought awhile. “ The idea is preposterous,”
he said: “ here we have possession ; here we are estab-
lished since King Lucius’s time, or since St. Paul
preached here; filling the island; one continuous Church;
with the same territory, the same succession, the same
hierarchy, the same civil and political position, the same
churches. Yes,” he proceeded, “we have the very
same fabrics, the memorials of a thousand years, doc-46

LOSS AND GATN.

trine stamped and perpetuated in stone; all the mystical
teaching of the old saints. What have the Methodists
to do with Catholic rites ? with altarB, with sacrifice,
with rood-lofts, with fonts, with niches ? they call it all
superstition.” “ Don’t be angry with me, Bateman,”
said Sheffield, “ and, before going, I will put forth a
parable. Here’s the Church of England, as like a Pro-
testant Establishment as it can stare ; bishops and peo-
ple, all but a few like yourselves, call it Protestant; the
living body calls itself Protestant; the living body ab-
jures Catholicism, flings off the name and the thing,
hates the Church of Rome, laughs at sacramental power,
despises the Eathers, is jealous of priestcraft, is a Pro-
testant reality, is a Catholic sham. This existing
reality, which is alive and no mistake, you wish to top
with a filagree-work of screens, dorsals, pastoral staffs,
croziers, mitres, and the like. Now, most excellent
Bateman, will you hear my parable ? will you be of-
fended at it ? ” Silence gave consent, and Sheffield
proceeded. “ Why, once on a time, a negro boy, when
his master was away, stole into his wardrobe, and deter-
mined to make himself fine at his master’s expense. So
he was presently seen in the streets, naked as usual, but
strutting up and down, with a cocked hat on his head,
and a pair of white kid gloves on his hands.” “Away
with you! get out, you graceless, hopeless fellow!”
said Bateman, discharging the sofa-bolster at his head.
Meanwhile Sheffield ran to the door, and quickly found
himself with Charles in the street below.

CHAPTER VIII.

Sheffield and Charles may go their way; but we
must follow White and Willis out of Bateman’s lodg-LOSS AND GAIN.

47

ings. It was a Saint’s day, and they had no lectures;
they walked arm in arm along Broad Street, evidently
very intimate, and Willis found his voice : “ I can’t hear
that Freeborn,” said he, “ he’s such a prig; and I like
him the less because I am obliged to know him.” “ You
"knew him in the country, I think ?” said White. “ In
consequence, he has several times had me to his spiri-
tual tea-parties, and has introduced me to old Mr.
Grimes,a good, kind-hearted o\Afogie,but an awful evan-
gelical, and his wife worse. Grimes is the old original
religious tea-man, and Freeborn imitates him. They
get together as many men as they can, perhaps twenty
freshmen, bachelors, and masters, who sit in a circle,-
with cups and saucers in their hands and hassocks at
their knees. Some insufferable person of Capel Hall or
St. Mark’s who hardly speaks English, under pretence
of asking Mr. Grimes some divinity question, holds forth
on original sin, or justification, or assurance, monopo-
lising the conversation. Then tea-things go, and a por-
tion of Scripture comes instead; and old Grimes
expounds; very good it is doubtless, though he is a lay-
man. He’s a good old soul; but no one in the room can
stand it; even Mrs. Grimes nods over her knitting, and
some of the dear brothers breathe very audibly. Mr.
Grimes, however, hears nothing but himself. At length
he stops; his hearers wake up, and the hassocks begin.
Then we go; and Mr. Grimes and the St. Mark’s man
call it a profitable evening. I can’t make out why any
one goes twice; yet some men never lhiss.” “They
all go on faith,” said White: “ faith in Mr. Grimes.”
“Faith in old Grimes!” said Willis; “an old half-pay
lieutenant!” “Here’s a church open,” said White;
“ that’s odd; let’s go in.”48

LOSS AND GAIN.

They entered; an old woman was dusting the pews as
if for service. “ That will be all set right,” said Willis ;
“ we must have no women, but sacristans and servers.”
“ Then, you know, all these pews will go to the right
about. Did you ever see a finer church for a function ?”
“Where would you put the sacristy ?” said Willis; “that
closet is meant for the vestry, but would never be large
enough.” “ That depends on the number of altars the
church admits,” answered White; “each altar must have
its own dresser and wardrobe in the sacristy.” “ One,”
said Willis, counting, “ where the pulpit stands, that’ll
be the high altar; one quite behind, that may be Our
Lady’s ; two on-each side of the chancel—four already;
to whom do you dedicate them ?”	“ The church is

not wide enough for those side ones,” objected White.
“ Oh, but it is,” said Willis; “ I have seen, abroad,
altars with only one step to them, and they need not be
very broad. I think, too, this wall admits of an arch—'
look at the depth of the window ; that would be a gain
of room.” “ No,” persisted White ; “ the chancel is too
narrowand he began to measure the floor with his
pocket-handkerchief. “ What would you say is the
depth of an altar from the wall ?” he asked.

On looking up he saw some ladies in the church whom
he and Willis knew—the pretty Miss Boltons—very Ca-
tholic girls, and really kind, charitable persons into the
bargain. We cannot add, that they were much wiser at
that time than the two young gentlemen whom they now
encountered; and if any fair reader thinks our account
of them a reflection on Catholic-minded ladies generally,
we beg distinctly to say, that we by no means put them
forth as a type of a class; that among such persons
were to be found, as we know well, the gentlest spiritsLOSS AND GAIN,

49

and the tenderest hearts; and that nothing short of se-
vere fidelity to historical truth keeps us from adorning
these twoyoung personsin particular with that prudence
and good sense with which so many such ladies were
endowed. These two sisters had open hands, if they
had not wise heads; and their object in entering the
church (which was not the church of their own parish)
was to see the old woman, who was at once a subject
and instrument of their bounty, and to say a word about
her little grandchildren, in whom they were interested.
As may be supposed they did not know much of mat-
ters ecclesiastical, and they knew less of themselves;
and the latter defect White could not supply, though he
waB doing, and had done, his best to remedy the for-
mer deficiency; and every meeting did a little.

The two parties left the church together, and the
gentlemen saw the ladies home. “We wrere imagining,
Miss Bolton,” White said, walking at a respectful dis-
tance from her, “ we were imagining St. James’s a Ca-
tholic church, and trying to arrange things as they ought
to be.” “ What was your first reform?” asked Miss
Bolton. “I fear,” answered White, “it would fare
hard with your protegee, the old lady who dusts out the
pews.” “ Why, certainly,” said Miss Bolton, “ because
there would be no pews to dust.” “ But not only in
office, but in person, or rather in character, she must
make her exit from the church,” said White. “ Impos-
sible,” said Miss Bolton; “ are women, then, to remain
Protestants ? ” “ Oh, no,” answered White, “ the good
lady will reappear, only in another character; she will
be a widow.” “ And who will take her present place ?”
“A sacristan,” answered White; “a sacristan in a
cotta. Do you like the short cotta or the long ? ” he50

LOSS AND GAIN.

continued, turning to the younger lady. “ I ?” answered
Miss Charlotte ; “ I always forget, but I think you told
us the Roman was the short one; I’m for the short
cotta.” “ You know, Charlotte,” said Miss Bolton,
“ that there’s a great reform going on in England in
ecclesiastical vestments.” “I hate all reforms,” answered
Charlotte, “ from the Reformation downwards. Besides,
we have got some way in our cope; you have seen it,
Mr. White ? it’s such a sweet pattern.” “ Have you
determined what to do with it ?” asked Willis. “ Time
enough to think of that,” said Charlotte; “it’ll take
four years to finish.” “Eour years!” cried White;
“ we shall be all real Catholics by then; England will
be converted.” “ It will be done just in time for the
bishop,” said Charlotte. “ Oh, it’s not good enough for
him,” said Miss Bolton; “ but it may do in church for
the Asperges. How different all things will be!” con-
tinued she; “yet I don’t quite like, though,the idea of
a cardinal in Oxford. Must we be so very Roman ? I
don’t see why we might not be quite Catholic without
the Pope.” “ Oh, you need not be afraid,” said White,
sagely; “ things don’t go so apace. Cardinals a,re not
so cheap.” “ Cardinals have so much state and stiff-
ness,” said Miss Bolton: “ I hear they never walk with-
out two servants behind them; and they always leave
the room directly dancing begins.” “ Well, I think Ox-
ford must be just cut out for cardinals,” said Miss Char-
lotte ; “ can any thing be duller than the President’s
parties ? I can fancy Dr. Bone a cardinal, as he walks
round the parks.” “ Oh, it’s the genius of the Catholic
Church,” said White; “you will understand it better
in time. No one is his own master; even the Pope
cannot do as he will; he dines by himself, and speaksLOSS AND GAIN.

51

by precedent.” “ Of course be does,” said Charlotte,
“ for he is infallible.” “ Nay, if he makes mistakes in
the functions,” continued White, “he is obliged to write
them down and confess them, lest they should be drawn
into precedents.” “And he is obliged, during a func-
tion, to obey the master of ceremonies, against his own
judgment,” said Willis. “Didn’t you say the Pope
confessed, Mr. White?” asked Miss Bolton; “it has
always puzzled me whether the Pope was obliged to con-
fess like another man.” “ Oh, certainly,” answered
White, “every one confesses.” “ Well,” said Charlotte,
“ I can’t fancy Mr. Hurst of St. Peter’s, who comes here
to sing glees, confessing, or some of the grave Heads of
houses, who bow so stiffly.” “ They will all have to
confess,” said White. “All?” asked Miss Bolton;
“ you don’t mean converts confess ? I thought it was
only old Catholics.” There was a little pause.

“ And what will the Heads of houses be ?” asked Miss
Charlotte. “Abbots or superiors,” answered White;
“ they will bear crosses; and when they say Mass, there
will be a lighted candle in addition.” “ What a good
portly.abbot the Vice-Chancellor will make!” said Miss
Bolton. “ Oh, no; he’s too short for an abbot,” said
her sister; “ but you have left out the Chancellor him-
self : you seem to have provided for every one else;
what will become of him ? ”	“ The Chancellor is my

difficulty,” said White gravely. “ Make him a Knight-
Templar,” said Willis. “ The Duke’s a queer hand,”
said White, still thoughtfully; “there’s no knowing
what he’ll come to. A Knight-Templar—yes ; Malta
is now English property; ‘ he might revive the order.”
The ladies both laughed. “ But you have not completed
your plan, Mr. White,” said Miss Bolton: “ the Heads of52

LOSS AND GAIN.

houses have got wives ; how can they become monks ? ”
“ Oh, the wives will go into convents,” said White:
“ Willis and I have been making inquiries in the High
Street, and they are most satisfactory. Some of the
houses there were once university-halls and inns, and will
easily turn back into convents: all that will be wanted
is grating to the windows.” “ Have you any notion
what order they ought to join?” said Miss Charlotte.
“ That depends on themselves,” said White : “ no com-
pulsion whatever must be put on them. They are the
judges. But it would be useful to have two convents—
one of an active order, and one contemplative: Ursuline,
for instance, and Carmelite of St. Theresa’s reform.”
Hitherto their conversation had been on the verge of
jest and earnest; now it took a more pensive, or even
tenderer tone. “ The nuns of St. Theresa are very strict,
I believe, Mr. White,” said Miss Bolton. “ Yes,” he
made reply; “I have fears for the Mrs. Wardens and
Mrs. Principals who undertake it.” “ Perhaps younger
persons,” she said timidly, “ might more fitly lead the
way.” They had got home, and White politely rang
the bell. “Younger persons,” said White, “are too
delicate for such a sacrifice.” She was silent; presently
she said, “And what will you be, Mr. White?” “I
know not,” he answered ; “ I have thought of the Cis-
tercians : they never speak.” “ Oh, the dear Cister-
cians ! ” she said ; “ St. Bernard, wasn’t it ?—sweet,
heavenly man, and so young! I have seen his picture:
such eyes!” White was a good-looking man. The
nun and monk looked at each other very respectfully,
and bowed ; the other pair went through a similar cere-
mony ; then it was performed diagonally. The two
ladies entered their home; the two gentlemen retired.LOSS AND GAIN.

53

We must follow the former up-stairs. When they
entered the drawing-room,they fo und their mother sitting
at the window in her bonnet and shawl, dipping into a
chance volume in that unsettled state which implies that
a person is occupied, if it may be so called, in waiting,
more than in any thing else. “ My dear children,” she
said as they entered, “ where have you been ? the bells
have stopped a good quarter of an hour: I fear we must
give up going to church this morning.” “ Impossible,
dear mamma,” answered Miss Bolton; “we went out
punctually at half-past nine: we did not stop two
minuteb at your worsted-shop ; and here we are back
again.” “ The only thing we did besides,” said Char-
lotte, “ was to look in at St. James’s, as the door was
open, to say a word or two to poor old Wiggins. Mr.
White was there, and his friend Mr. Willis; and they
saw us home.” “ Oh, I understand,” answered Mrs.
Bolton; “ that is the way when young gentlemen and
ladies get together: but, at any rate, we -are late for
church.” “ Oh, no,” said Charlotte, “ let us set out
directly; we shall get in by the first lesson.” “ My
dear child, how can you propose such a thing?” said
her mother: “ I would not do so for any consideration;
it is bo very disgraceful. Better not go at all.” “ Oh,
dearest mamma,” said the elder sister, “ this certainly
is a prejudice. Why always come in at one time ? there
is something so formal in people coming in all at once,
and waiting for each other. It is surely more reasonable
to come in when you can: so many things may hinder
persons.” “ Well, my dear Louisa,” said her mother,
“ I like the old way. It used always to be said to us,
Be in your seats before ‘ When the wicked man,’ and
at latest before the ‘ Dearly beloved.’ That’s the good54

LOSS AND GAIN.

old-fashioned way. And Mr. Jones and Mr. Pearson
used always to sit at least five minutes in the desk to
give us some law, and used to look round before be-
ginning ; and Mr. Jones used frequently to preach
against late comers. I can’t argue, but it seems to me
reasonable that good Christians should hear the whole
service. They might as well go out before it’s over.”
“ "Well, but, mamma,” said Charlotte, “ so it is abroad :
they come in and go out when they please. It’s so de-
votional.” “My dear girl,” said Mrs. Bolton, “I am
too old to understand all this; it’s beyond me. I sup-
pose Mr. White has been saying all this to you. He’s
a good young man, very amiable and attentive. I have
nothing to say against him, except that he is young, and
he’ll change his view of things when he gets older.”
“ While we talk, time’s going,” said Louisa; “ is it quite
impossible we should still go to church ?”	“ My dear

Louisa, I would not walk up the aisle for the world;
positively I should sink into the earth: such a bad ex-
ample. How can you dream of such a thing?” “Then,
I suppose nothing’s to be done,” said Louisa, taking off
her bonnet; “ but really it is very sad to make worship
so cold and formal a thing. Twice as many people would
go to church if they might be late.” “ Well, my dear,
all things are changed now: in my younger days, Ca-
tholics were the formal people, and we were the devo-
tional ; now it’s just the reverse.” “ But isn’t it so,
dear mamma?” said Charlotte; “isn’t it something much
more beautiful, this continued concourse, flowing and
ebbing, changing yet full, than a way of praying which
is as wooden as the reading desk ?—it’s so free and na-
tural.” , “ Free and easy, 1 think,” said her mother;
“ for shame, Charlotte! how can you speak against theLOSS AND GAIN.

55

beautiful Church service; you pain me.” “ I don’t,”
answered Charlotte; “ it’s a mere puritanical custom,
which is no more part of our church than the pews are.”
“ Common prayer is offered to all who can come,” said
Louisa; “church should be a privilege, not a mere duty.”
“ Well, my dear love, this is more than I can follow.
There was young George Ashton—he always left before
the sermon; and when taxed with it, he said he could
not bear an heretical preacher: a boy of eighteen!”
“ But, dearest mamma,” said Charlotte, “ what is to be
done when a preacher is heretical ? what else can be
done ?—it’s so distressing to a Catholic mind.” “ Ca-
tholic, Catholic!” cried Mrs. Bolton, rather vexed;
“ give me good old George the Third and the Protestant
religion. Those were the times! Every thing went on
quietly then. We had no disputes or divisions; no dif-
ferences in families. But now it is all otherwise. My
head is turned, I declare; I hear so many strange, out-
of-the-way things.”

The young ladies did not answer; one looked out of
the window, the other prepared to leave the room.
“Well, it’s a disappointment to us all,” said their mo-
ther ; “ you first hindered me going, then I have
hindered you. But I suspect, dear Louisa, mine is the
greater disappointment of the two.” Louisa turned
round from the window. “ I value the Prayer-book as
you cannot do, my love,” she continued; “ for I have
known what it is to one in deep affliction. May it be
long, dearest girls, before you know it in a similar way:
but if affliction comes on you, depend on it, all these
new fancies and fashions will vanish from you like the
wind, and the good old Prayer-book alone will stand
you in any stead.” They were both touched. “ Come,56

LOSS AND GAIN.

my dears ; I have spoken too seriously,” she added.
“ Go and take your things off, and come and let us have
some quiet work before luncheon-time.”

CHAPTER IX.

Some persons fidget at intellectual difficulties, and, suc-
cessfully or not, are ever trying to solve them. Charles
was of a different cast of temper; a new idea was not
lost on him, but it did not distress him, if it was obscure,
or conflicted with his habitual view of things. He let
it work its way and find its place, and shape itself
within him, by the slow spontaneous action of the mind.
Yet perplexity is not in itself a pleasant state; and he
would have hastened its removal, had he been able.

By means of conversations, such as those which we
have related (to which many others might be added,
which we spare the reader’s patience), and from the
diversities of view which he met with in the University,
he had now come, in the course of a year, to one or two
conclusions, not very novel, but very important:—first,
that there are a great may opinions in the world on
the most momentous subjects; secondly, that all are
not equally true; -thirdly, that it is a duty to hold true
opinions ; and, fourthly, that it is uncommonly difficult
to get hold of them. He had been accustomed, as we
have seen, to fix his mind on persons, not on opinions,
and to determine to like what was good in every one;
hut he had now come to perceive that, to say the least,
it was not respectable to hold false opinions. It did not
matter that such false opinions were sincerely held,—ho
could not feel that respect for a person who held what
Sheffield called a sham, with which he regarded him whoLOSS AND GAIN.

57

held a reality. "White and Bateman were cases in point:
they were very good fellows, but he could not endure
their unreal way of talking, though they did not feel it
to be unreal themselves. In like manner, if the Roman
Catholic system was untrue, so far was plain (putting
aside higher considerations), that a person who believed
in the power of saints, and prayed to them, was an actor
in a great sham, let him be as sincere as he would. He
mistook words for things, and so far forth, he could not
respect him more than he respected White or Bateman.
And so of a Unitarian; if he believed the power of un-
aided human nature to be what it was not; if by birth
man is fallen,and he thought him upright,he was holding
an absurdity. He might redeem and cover this blot by a
thousand excellences, but a blot it would remain; just
as we should feel a handsome man disfigured by the loss
of an eye or a hand. And so again, if a professing
Christian made the Almighty a being of simple benevo-
lence, and He was, on the contrary, what the Church of
England teaches, a God who punishes for the sake of
justice, such a person was making an idol or unreality
the object of his religion, and (apart from more serious
thoughts about him) he could not respect him. Thus
the principle of dogmatism gradually became an essential
element in Charles’s religious views.

Gradually, and imperceptibly to himself; for the
thoughts which we have been tracing only came on him
at spare times, and were taken up at intervals from the
point at which they were laid down. His lectures and
other duties of the place, his friends and recreations,
were the staple of the day ; but there was this under-
current ever in motion, and sounding in his mental ear
as soon as other sounds were hushed. As he dressed58

LOSS AND GAIN.

in the morning, as he sat under the beeches of his col-
lege-garden, when he strolled into the meadow, when he
went into the town to pay a bill or make a call, when
he threw himself on his sofa after shutting his oak at
night, thoughts cognate with those which have been
described were busy within him.

Discussions, however, and inquiries, as far as Oxford
could afford matter for them, were for a while drawing to
an end ; for Trinity Sunday was now past, and the Com-
memoration was close at hand. On the Sunday before
it, the University sermon happened to be preached by a
distinguished person, whom that solemnity brought up
to Oxford; no less a man than the Very Rev. Dr.
Brownside, the new Dean of Nottingham, some time
Huntingdonian Professor of Divinity, and one of the
acutest, if not soundest academical thinkers of the day.
He was a little, prim, smirking, be-spectacled man, bald
in front, with curly black hair behind, somewhat pompous
in his manner, with a clear musical utterance, which
enabled one to listen to him without effort. As a divine,
he seemed never to have had any difficulty on any sub-
ject ; he was so clear or so shallow, that he saw to the
bottom of all his thoughts: or, since Dr. Johnson tells
us that “ all shallows are clear,” we may perhaps dis-
tinguish him by both epithets. Revelation to him, in-
stead of being the abyss of God’s counsels, with its dim
outlines and broad shadows, was a flat sunny plain, laid
out with straight macadamised roads. Not, of course,
that he denied the divine incomprehensibility itself, with
certain heretics of old; but he maintained that in Re-
velation all that was mysterious had been left out, and
nothing given us but what was practical, and directly
concerned us. It was, moreover, to him a marvel, thatLOSS AND GAIN.

59

every one did not agree with him in taking this simple,
natural view, which he thought almost self-evident; and
he attributed the phenomenon, which was by no means
uncommon, to some want of clearness of head, or twist
of mind, as the case might be. He was a popular
preacher; that is, though he had few followers, he had
numerous hearers; and on this occasion the church was
overflowing with the young men of the place.

He began his sermon by observing, that it was not a
little remarkable that there were so few good reasoners
in the world, considering that the discursive faculty
was one of the characteristics of man’s nature, as con-
trasted- with brute animals. It had indeed been said
that brutes reasoned; but this was an analogical sense
of the word ‘ reason,’ and an instance of that very am-
biguity of language, or confusion of thought, on which
he was animadverting. In like manner, we say that the
reason why the wind blows is, that there is a change of
temperature in the atmosphere; and the reason why
the bells ring is, because the ringers pull them; but
who would say that the wind reasons or that bells
reason ? There was, he believed, no well-ascertained
fact (an emphasis on the word fact) of brutes reasoning.
It had befen said, indeed, that that sagacious animal, the
dog, if, in tracking his master, he met three ways, after
smelling the two, boldly pursued the third without any
such previous investigation; which, if true, would be an
instance of a disjunctive hypothetical syllogism. Also
Dugald Stewart spoke of the case of a monkey cracking
nuts behind a door, Which, not being a strict imitation of
any thing which he could have actually seen, implied an
operation of abstraction, by which the clever brute had
first ascended to the general notion of nut-crackers,60

LOSS AND GAIN.

which perhaps he had seen in a particular instance, in
silver or in steel, at his master’s table, and then de-
scending, had embodied it, thus obtained, in the shape
of an expedient of his own devising. This was what
had been said: however, he might assume on the pre-
sent occasion, that the faculty of reasoning was charac-
teristic of the human species; and, this being the case,
it certainly was remarkable that so few persons reasoned
well.

After this introduction, he proceeded to attribute to
this defect the number of religious differences in the
world. He said that the most celebrated questions in
religion were but verbal ones; that the disputants did
not know their own meaning, or that of their opponents ;
and that a spice of good logic would have put an end to
dissensions, which had troubled the world for centuries,
—would have prevented many a bloody war, many a
fierce anathema, many a savage execution, and many a
ponderous folio. He went on to imply that in fact there
was no truth or falsehood in the received dogmas in
theology; that they were modes, neither good nor bad
in themselves, but personal, national, or periodic, in
which the intellect reasoned upon the great truths of
religion; that the fault lay, not in holding them, but
in insisting on them, which was like insisting on a
Hindoo dressing like a Fin, or a regiment of dragoons
using the boomarang.

He proceeded to observe, that from what he had said,
it was plain in what point of view the Anglican formu-
laries were to be regarded; viz. they were ov/r mode of
expressing everlasting truths, which might be as well
expressed in other ways, as any correct thinker would
be able to see. Nothing, then, was to be altered inLOSS AND GAIN.

61

them; they were to be retained in their integrity; but
it was ever to be borne in mind that they were Angli-
can theology, not theology in the abstract; and that,
though the Athanasian Creed was good for us, it did not
follow that it was good for our neighbours; rather, that
what seemed the very reverse might suit others better,
might be their mode of expressing the same truths.

He concluded with one word in favour of Nestorius,
two for Abelard, three for Luther, “ that great mind,”
as he worded it, “ who saw that churches, creeds, rites,
persons, were nought in religion, and that the inward
spirit, faith," as he himself expressed it, “ was all in all
and with a hint that nothing would go well in the Uni-
versity till this great principle was so far admitted, that
they should—not indeed, give up their own distinctive
formularies, no—but consider their direct contradicto-
ries equally pleasing to the divine Author of Christianity.

Charles did not understand the full drift of the ser-
mon ; but he understood enough to make him feel that
it was different from any sermon he had heard in his
life. He more than doubted, whether, if his good fa-
ther had heard it, he would not have made it an excep-
tion to his favourite dictum. He came away marvelling
with himself what the preacher could mean, and whether
he had misunderstood him. Did he mean that Unita-
rians were only bad reasoners, and might be as good
Christians as orthodox believers ? He could mean no-
thing else. But what if, after all, he was right ? He
indulged the thought awhile. “ Then every one is what
Sheffield calls a sham, more or less; and we need not
be annoyed at any one. Then I was right originally in
wishing to take every one for what he was. Let me
think; every one a sham—shams are respectable, or ra-62

LOSS AND GAIN.

ther no one is respectable. We can’t do without some
outward form of belief; one is not truer than another;
that is, all are equally true...All are true...That is the
better way of taking it; none are shams, all are true. All
are true! impossible! one as true as another! why then it
is as true that our Lord is a mere man, as that He is God.
He could not possibly mean this; what did he mean ?”
So Charles went on, painfully perplexed, yet out of
this perplexity two convictions came upon him, the first
of them painful too ; that he could not take for gospel
every thing that was said even by authorities of the place
and divines of name; and next, that his former amiable
feeling of taking every one for what he was, was a dan-
gerous one, leading with little difficulty to a sufferance
of every sort of belief, and legitimately terminating in
the sentiment expressed in Pope’s Universal Prayer,
which his father had always held up to him as a pattern
specimen of shallow philosophism :

“ Father of all, in every age,

In every clime adored,

By saint, by savage, and by sage,

Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.”

CHAPTEE X.

Chables went up this term for his first examination,
and this caused him to remain in Oxford some days after
the undergraduate part of his college had left for the
Long Vacation. Thus he came across Mr. Vincent, one
of the junior tutors, who was kind enough to ask him
to dine in Common-room on Sunday, and on several
mornings made him take some turns with him up and
down the Eellows’ walk in the college-garden.LOSS AND GAIN.

63

A few years make a great difference in the standing
of men at Oxford, and this made Mr. Vincent what is
called a don in the eyes of persons who were very little
younger than himself. Besides, Vincent looked much
older than he really was ; he was of a full habit, with a
florid complexion and large blue eyes, and showed a deal
of linen at his bosom, and full wristbands at his cuffs.
Though a clever man, and a hard reader and worker, and
a capital tutor, he was a good feeder as well; he ate and
drank, he walked and rode, with as much heart as he
lectured in Aristotle, or crammed in Greek plays. "What
is stranger still, with all this he was something of a vale-
tudinarian. He had come off from school on a founda-
tion fellowship, and had the reputation both at school
and in the University of being a first-rate scholar. He
was a strict disciplinarian in his way, had the under-
graduates under his thumb, and having some bonhomie
in his composition, was regarded by them with mingled
feelings of fear and good will. They laughed at him, but
carefully obeyed him. Besides this he preached a good
sermon, read prayers with unction, and in his conversa-
tion sometimes had even a touch of evangelical spiri-
tuality. The young men even declared they could tell
how much port he had taken in Common-room by the
devoutness of his responses in evening-chapel; and it
was on record that once, during the Confession, he had,
in the heat of his contrition, shoved over the huge velvet
cushion in which his elbows were imbedded upon the
heads of the gentlemen commoners who sat under him.

He had just so much originality of mind as gave him
an excuse for being “ his own party” in religion, or what
he himself called being “ no party manand just
bo little that he was ever mistaking shams for64

LOSS AND GAIN.

truths, and converting pompous nothings into oracles.
He was oracular in his manner, denounced parties and
party-spirit, and thought to avoid the one and the other,
by eschewing all persons, and holding all opinions. He
had a great idea of the via media being the truth; and
to obtain it, thought it enough to flee from extremes,
without having any very definite mean to flee to. He
had not clearness of intellect enough to pursue a
truth to its limits, nor boldness enough to hold it in its
simplicity; but he was always saying things and unsay-
ing them, balancing his thoughts in impossible positions,
and guarding his words by unintelligible limitations.
As to the men and opinions of the day and place, he
would in the main have agreed with them, had he let
himself alone; but he was determined to have an intel-
lect of his own, and this put him to great shifts when
he would distinguish himself from them. Had he been
older than they, he would have talked of “ young heads,”
“ hot heads,” and the like; but since they were grave
and cool men, and outran him by fourteen or fifteen years,
he found nothing better than to shake his head, mutter
against party-spirit, refuse to read their books, lest he
should be obliged to agree with them, and make a boast
of avoiding their society. At the present moment he
was on the point of starting for a continental tour to re*
emit himself after the labours of an Oxford year; mean-
while he was keeping hall and chapel open for such men
as were waiting either for Responsions, or for their bat-
tel money: and he took notice of Reding as a clever
modest youth, of whom something might be made.
Under this view of him, he had, among other civilities,
asked him to breakfast a day or two before he went down.

A tutor’s breakfast is always a difficult affair both forLOSS AND GAIN.

65

host and guests; and Vincent piqued himself on the tact
•with which he managed it. The material part was easy
enough; there were rolls, toast, muffins, eggs, cold lamb,
strawberries, on the table; and in due season the college^
servant brought in mutton cutlets and broiled hamj
and every one ate to his heart’s, or rather his appetite’s,
content. It was a more arduous undertaking to provide
the running accompaniment of thought, or at least of
words, without which the breakfast would have been
little better than a pig-trough. The conversation or
rather mono-polylogue, as some great performer calls,
it, ran in somewhat of the following strain

“ Mr. Bruton, what news from Staffordshire ? Are the
potteries pretty quiet now ? Our potteries grow in im-
portance. You need not look at the cup and saucer be-
fore you, Mr. Catley; those came from Derbyshire. But
you find English crockery every where on the Continent.
I myself found half a willow-pattern saucer in the crater
of Vesuvius. Mr. Sikes, I think you have been inltaly ?”
“ No, sir,” said Sikes; “ I was near going; my family
set off a fortnight ago, but I was kept here by these con-
founded smalls.” “Your Re&pansiones,” answered the
tutor, in a tone of rebuke; “ an unfortunate delay for
you, for it is to be an unusually fine season, if the meteo-
rologists of the sister University are right in their pre*
dictions. Who is in the Besponsion schools, Mr. Sikea
n Butson of Leicester is the strict one, sir; he plucks
one man in three. He plucked last week Patch of St.
George’s, and Patch has taken his oath he’ll shoot him;
and Butson has walked about ever since with a bull-
dog.” “ These are reports, Mr. Sikes, which often flit
about, but must not be trusted. Mr. Patch could not66

LOSS AND GAIN.

have given a better proof that his rejection was de-
served.”

A pause—during which poor Vincent hastily gobbled
up two or three mouthfuls of bread and butter, the knives
and forks meanwhile clinking upon his guests’ plates.
“ Sir, is it true,” began one of them at length, “ that the
old Principal is going to be married?” “These are
matters, Mr. Atkins,” answered Vincent, “ which we
should always inquire about at the fountain head;
antiquam exquirite matrem, or rather 'patrem; ha, ha!
Take some more tea, Mr. Reding; it won’t hurt your
nerves. I am rather choice in my tea; this comes over-
land through Russia; the sea-air destroys the flavour of
our common tea. Talking of air, Mr. Tenby, I think
you are a chemist. Have you paid attention to the re-
cent experiments on the composition and resolution of
air ? Not ? I am surprised at it; they are well worth
your most serious consideration. It is now pretty well
ascertained that inhaling gases is the cure for all kinds
of diseases. People are beginning to talk of the gas-cure,
as they did of the water-cure. The great foreign chemist,
Professor Scaramouch, has the credit of the discovery.
The effects are astounding, quite astounding; and there
are several remarkable coincidences. You know medi-
cines are always unpleasant, and bo these gases are al-
ways fetid. The Professor cures by stenches; and has
brought his science to such perfection that he actually
can classify them. There are six elementary stenches,
and these spread into a variety of subdivisions. What
do you say, Mr. Reding? Distinctive ? Yes, there is
something very distinctive in smells. But what is most
gratifying of all, and is the great coincidence I spoke of,LOBS AND GAIN.

67

his ultimate resolution of fetid gases assigns to them the
very same precise number as is given to existing com-
plaints in the latest treatises on pathology. Each com-
plaint has its gas. And, what is still more singular, an
exhausted receiver is a specific for certain desperate dis-
orders. For instance, it has effected several cures of
hydrophobia. Mr. Seaton,” he continued to a freshman,
who, his breakfast finished, waB sitting uncomfortably
on his chair, looking down and playing with his knife—
“ Mr. Seaton, you are looking at that picture”—it was
almost behind Seaton’s back—“ I don’t wonder at it;
it was given me by my good old mother, who died many
years ago. It represents some beautiful Italian scenery.”
Vincent stood up, and his party after him, and all
crowded round the picture. “ I prefer the green of
England,” said Reding. “ England has not that bril-
liant variety of colour,” said Tenby. “But there is some-
thing so soothing in green.” “ You know, of course,
Mr. Reding,” said the tutor, “ that there is plenty of
green in Italy, and in winter even more than in Eng-
land ; only there are other colours too.” “ But I can’t
help fancying,’ ’ said Charles, “ that that mixture of co-
lours takes off the repose of English scenery.” “ The
repose, for instance,” said Tenby, “ of Binsey Common,
or Port Meadow in winter.” “ Say in summer,” said
Reding; “ if you choose place, I will choose time. I
think the University goes down just when Oxford Be^
gins to be most~beautTTal7 The walks and meadows are
so fragrant and bright now, the hay half carried, and the
Bhort new grass appearing.” “ Reding ought to live
here all through the Long,” said Tenby : “ does any one
live through the Vacation, sir, in Oxford ?” “Do you
mean they die before the end of it, Mr. Tenby ?” asked68

LOSS AND GAIN.

Vincent. “ It can’t be denied,” he continued, “ that
many, like Mr. Eeding, think it a most pleasant time.
I am fond of Oxford; hut it is not my habitat otit of
term-time.” “Well, I think I should like to make it so,”
said Charles, “ but, I suppose, undergraduates are not
allowed.” Mr. Vincent answered with more than neces-
sary gravity, “ No ;” it rested with the Principal; but
he conceived that he would not consent to it. Vincent
added that certainly there were parties who remained in
Oxford through the Long Vacation. It was said mys-
teriously. Charles answered that, if it was against col-
lege rules, there was no help for it; else, were he read-
ing for his degree, he should like nothing better than to
pass the Long Vacation in Oxford, if he might judge
by the pleasantness of the last ten days. “ That is a
compliment, Mr. Eeding, to your company,” says Vin-
cent.

At this moment the door opened, and in came the
manciple with the dinner paper, which Mr. Vincent had
formally to run his eye over. “Watkins,” he said,
giving it back to him, “ I almost think to-day is one of
the Pasts of the Church. Go and look, Watkins, and
bring me word.” The astonished manciple, who had
never been sent on such a commission in his whole career
before, hastened out of the room, to task his wits how
best to fulfil it. The question seemed to strike the com-
pany as forcibly, for there was a sudden silence, which
was succeeded by a shuffling of feet and a leave-taking;
as if, though they had secured their ham and mutton at
breakfast, they did not like to risk their dinner. Wat-
kins returned sooner than could have been expected.
He said that Mr. Vincent was right; to-day he had
found was “ the feast of the Apostles.” “ The VigilLOSS AND GAIN.

69

of St. Peter, you mean, Watkins,” said Mr. Vincent;
“I thought so. Then let us have a plain beefsteak
and a saddle of mutton; no Portugal onions, Wat-
kins, or currant jelly; and some simple pudding,
Charlotte pudding, Watkins—that will do.”

Watkins vanished. By this time, Charles found him-
Belf alone with the college authority; who began to
speak to him in a more confidential tone. “ Mr. Beding,”
said he, “ I did not like to question you before the others,
but I conceive you had no particular meaning in your
praise of Oxford in the Long Vacation ? In the mouths
of some it would have been suspicious.” Charles was all
surprise. “ To tell the truth, Mr. Beding, as things
stand,” he proceeded, “ it is often a mark of 'party, this
residence in the Vacation; though, of course, there is
nothing in the thing itself but what is perfectly natural
and right.” Charles was all attention. “ My good sir,”
the tutor proceeded, “ avoid parties; be sure to avoid
party. You are young in your career among us. I al-
ways feel anxious about young men of talent; there is
the greatest danger of the talent of the University being
absorbed in party.” Beding expressed a hope, that no-
thing he had done had given cause to his tutor’s remark.
“ No,” replied Mr. Vincent, “ no;” yet with some slight
hesitation; “ no, I don’t know that it has. But I have
thought some of your remarks and questions at lecture
were like a person pushing things too far, and wishing
to form a system.” Charles was so much taken aback
by the charge, that the unexplained mystery of the Long
Vacation went out of his head. He said, he was “ very
sorry,” and “ obliged;” and tried to recollect what he
could have said to give ground to Mr. Vincent’s remark.
Not being able at the moment to recollect, he went on.70

LOSS AND GAIN.

“ I assure you, sir, I knbw so little of parties in the
place, that I hardly know their leaders. I have heard
persons mentioned, but, if I tried, I think I should, in
some cases, mismatch names and opinions.” “ I believe
it,” said Vincent; “ but you are young; I am cautioning
you against tendencies. You may suddenly find yourself
absorbed before you know where you are.”

Charles thought this a good opportunity of asking
some questions in detail, about points which puzzled him.
He asked whether Dr. Brownside was considered a safe
divine to follow. “ I hold, d’ye see,” answered Vincent,
“ that all errors are counterfeits of truth. Clever men
say true things, Mr. Reding, true in their substance,
but,” sinking his voice to a whisper, “they go too far.
It might even be shown that all sects are in one sense
but parts of the Catholic Church. I don’t say true
parts, that is a further question; but they embody great
principles. The Quakers represent the principle of
simplicity and evangelical poverty; they even have a
dress of their own, like monks. The Independents re-
present the rights of the laity; the Wesleyans cherish
the devotional principle; the Irvingites, the symbolical
and mystical; the High Church party, the principle of
obedience; the Liberals are the guardians of reason.
No party, then, I conceive, is entirely right or entirely
wrong. As to Dr. Brownside, there certainly have
been various opinions entertained about his divinity;
still, he is an able man, and I think you will gain good,
gain good from his teaching. But mind, I don’t re-
commend him; yet I respect him, and I consider that
he says many things very well worth your attention.
I would advise you, then, to accept the good which his
sermons offer, without committing yourself to the bad.LOSS AND GAIN.

71

That, depend upon it, Mr. Beding, is the golden though
the obvious rule in these matters.”

Charles said, in answer, that Mr. Vincent was over-
rating his powers; that he had to learn before he could
judge; and that he wished very much to know whether
Vincent could recommend him any book, in which he
might see at once what the true Church of England doc-
trine was on a number of points which perplexed him.
Mr. Vincent replied, he must be on his guard against
dissipating his mind with such reading, at a time when
his University duties had a definite claim upon him. He
ought to avoid all controversies of the day, all authors
of the day. He would advise him to read no living
authors. “Head dead authors alone,” he continued;
“ dead authors are Bafe. Our great divines,” and he
stood upright, “ were models; ‘ there were giants on the
earth in those days,’ as King George the Third had once
said of them to Dr. Johnson. They had that depth,
and power, and gravity, and fulness, and erudition; and
tfhey were so racy, always racy, and what might be called
English. They had that richness, too, such a mine of
thought, such a world of opinion, such activity of mind,
such inexhaustible resource, such diversity, too. Then
they were so eloquent; the majestic Hooker, the ima-
ginative Taylor, the brilliant Hall, the learning of
Barrow, the strong sense of South, the keen logic of
Chillingworth, good, honest old Burnet,” etc., etc.

There did not seem much reason why he should stop
at one moment more than another; at length, however,
he did stop. It was prose, but it was pleasant prose to
Charles; he knew just enough about these writers to
feel interested in hearing them talked about, and to him
Vincent seemed to be saying a.good deal, when in fact72

LOSS ACT) GAIN.

he was saying very little. When he stopped, Charles
said he believed that there werepersons in theUniversity
who were promoting the study of these authors. Mr.
Vincent looked grave. “It is true,” he said; “but,
my young friend, I have already hinted to you that in-
different things are perverted to the purposes of pa/tty.
At this moment the names of some of our greatest divines
are little better than a watchword, by which the opinions
of living individuals are signified.” “ Which opinions,
I suppose,” he answered, “ are not to be found in those
authors.” “ I’ll not say that,” said Mr. Vincent. “ I
have the greatest respect for the individuals in question,
and I am not denying that they have done good to our
church by drawing attention in this lax day to the old
Church-of-England divinity. But it is one thing to
agree with these gentlemen; another,” laying his hand
on Charles’s shoulder, “ another to belong to their party.
Do not make man your master; get good from all; think
well of all persons, and you will be a wise man.”
Reding inquired, with some timidity, if this was not
something like what Dr. Brownside had said in the Uni-
versity pulpit; but perhaps the latter advocated a tolera-
tion of opinions in a different sense ? Mr. Vincent
answered rather shortly, that he had not heard Dr.
Brownside’s sermon; but, for himself, he had been
speaking only of persons in our own communion. “ Our
church,” he said, “ admitted of great liberty of thought
within her pale. Even our greatest divines differed
from each other in many respects; nay, Bishop Taylor
differed from himself. It was a great principle in the
English Church. Her true children agree to differ. In
truth,” he continued, “ there is that robust, masculine,
noble independence in theEnglish mind, which refuses toLOSS AND GAIN.

73

be tied down to artificial shapes; but is like, I will say,
some great and beautiful production of nature,—a tree,
which is rich in foliage and fantastic in limb, no sickly
denizen of the hothouse, or helpless dependent of the gar-
den-wall, but in careless magnificence sheds its fruits upon
the free earth, for the bird of the air and the beast of the
field, and all sorts of cattle, to eat thereof and rejoice.”
When Charles came away, he tried to think what he
had gained by his conversation with Mr. Vincent; not
exactly what he had wanted, some practical rules to
guide his mind and keep him steady, but still some use-
ful hints. He had already been averse to parties, and
offended at what he saw of individuals attached to them.
Vincent had confirmed him in his resolution to keep
aloof from them, and to attend to his duties in the place.
He felt pleased to have had this talk with him; but
what could he mean by suspecting a tendency in himself
to push things too far, and thereby to implicate himself
in party ? He was obliged to resign himself to ignorance
on the subject, and to content himself with keeping a
watch over himself in future.

CHAPTER XI.

No opportunity has occurred of informing the reader
that, during the last week or two, Charles had acciden-
tally been a good deal thrown across Willis, the umbra
of White at Bateman’s breakfast-party. He had liked
his looks on that occasion, when he was dumb; he did
not like him so much when he heard him talk ; still he
could not help being interested in him, and not the least
for this reason, that Willis seemed to have taken a great74

LOSS AJTD GAIN.

fancy to himself. He certainly did court Charles, and
seemed anxious to stand well with him. Charles, how-
ever, did not like his mode of talking better than he
did White’s; and when he first saw his rooms, there
was much in them which shocked both his good sense
and his religious principles. A large ivory crucifix, in
a glass case, was a conspicuous ornament between the
windows; an engraving, representing the Blessed
Trinity, as is usual in Catholic countries, hung over the
fire-place; and a picture of the Madonna and St. Do-
minic was opposite to it. On the mantel-piece were a
rosary, a thuribulum,and other tokens of Catholicism, of
which Charles did not know the uses; a missal, ritual,
and some Catholic tracts, lay on the table; and, as he
happened to come on Willis unexpectedly, he found him
sitting in a vestment more like a cassock than a reading-
gown, and engaged upon some portion of the Breviary.
Virgil and Sophocles, Herodotus and Cicero, seemed, as
impure pagans, to have hid themselves in corners, or
flitted away, before the awful presence of the Ancient
Church. Charles had taken upon himself to protest
against some of these singularities, but without success.

On the evening before his departure for the country,
he had occasion to go towards Dolly Bridge to pay a bill,
when he was startled, as he passed what he had ever
taken for a dissenting chapel, to see Willis come out of
it. He hardly could believe he saw correctly; he knew,
indeed, that Willis had been detained in Oxford, as he
had been himself; but what had compelled him to a
visit so extraordinary as that which he had just made,
Charles had no means of determining. “ Willis,” he
cried, as he stopped. Willis coloured, and tried to look
easy. “ Do come a few paces with me,” said Charles.LOSS AND GAIN.

75

“ What in the world has taken you there ? Is it not a
dissenting meeting ? ”	“ Dissenting meeting!” cried

Willis, surprised and offended in his turn; “ what on
earth could make you think I would go to a dissenting
meeting ? ” “ Well, I beg your pardon,” said Charles ;
“ I recollect now: it’s the exhibition room. However,
once it was a chapel: that’s my mistake. Isn’t it what
is called * the Old Methodist Chapel ? ’ I never was
there; they showed there the Dio-astro-doxon, so I
think they called it.” Charles talked on, to cover his
own mistake, for he was ashamed of the charge he had
made. Willis did not know whether he was in jest or
earnest. “ Eeding,” he said, “ don’t go on; you offend
me.” “Well, what is it?” said Charles. “You know
well enough,” answered Willis, “ though you wish to
annoy me.” “I don’t indeed.” “It’s the Catholic
church,” said Willis. Eeding was silent a moment;
then he said: “Well, I don’t think you have mended
the matter; it is a dissenting meeting, call it what you
will; though not the kind of one I meant.” “ What
can you mean?” asked Willis. “Eather, what mean
you by going to such places ?” retorted Charles; “why,
it is against your oath.” “My oath! what oath?”
“ There’s not an oath now; hut there was an oath till
lately,” said Eeding; “ and we still make a very solemn
engagement. Don’t you recollect your matriculation at
the Vice-Chancellor’s, and what oaths and declarations
you made?” “I don’t know what I made: my tutor
told me nothing about it. I signed a book or two.”
“ You did more,” said Eeding. “ I was told most care-
fully. You solemnly engaged to keep the statutes; and
one statute is, not to go into any dissenting chapel or
meeting whatever.” “ Catholics are not dissenters,”76

LOSS AND GAIN.

said Willis. “ Oh, don’t speak so,” said Charles; “you
know it’s meant to include them. The statute wishes us
to keep from all places of worship whatever but our
own.” “ But it is an illegal declaration or vow,” said
Willis, “and so not binding.” “Where did you find
that get-off? ” said Charles ; “the priest put that into
your head.” “ I don’t know the priest; I never spoke
a word to him,” answered Willis. “ Well, any how, it’s
not your own answer,” said Reding; “and does not help
you. I am no casuist; but if it is an illegal engage-
ment, you should not continue to enjoy the benefit of it.”
“ What benefit ? ” “ Your cap and gown; a university
education; the chance of a scholarship, or fellowship.
Give up these, and then plead, if you will, and lawfully,
that you are quit of your engagement; but don’t sail
under false colours: don’t take the benefit, and break the
stipulation.” “ You take it too seriously; there are half
a hundred statutes you don’t keep, any more than I.
You are most inconsistent.” “ Well, if we don’t keep
them,” said Charles, “ I suppose it is in points where
the authorities don’t enforce them ; for instance, they
don’t mean us to dress in brown, though the statutes
order it.” “ But they do mean to keep you from walk-
ing down High Street in beaver,” answered Willis; “ for
the Proctors march up and down, and send you back, if
they catch you.” “ But this is a different matter,” said
Reding, changing his ground; “ this is a matter of re-
ligion. It can’t be right to go to strange places of wor-
ship or meetings.” “Why,” said Willis, “if we are
one church with the Roman Catholics, I can’t make out
for the life of me, how it’s wrong for us to go to them,
or them to us.” “ I’m no divine, I don’t understand
what is meant by one church,’ ’ said Charles; “ but I knowLOSS AND GAIN.

77

well that there’s not a bishop, not a clergyman, not a
sober churchman in the land but would give it against
you. It’s a sheer absurdity.” “ Don’t talk in that way,”
answered Willis, “ please don’t. I feel all my heart
drawn to the Catholic worship; our own service is so
cold.” “ That’s just what every stiff dissenter says,”
answered Charles; “every poor cottager too, who
knows no better, and goes after the Methodists, after
dear Mr. Spoutaway or the preaching cobbler, she says (I
have heard them), * Oh, sir, I suppose we ought to go
where we get most good. Mr. So-and-so goes to my
heart—he goes through me.’ ” Willis laughed; “ Well,
not a bad reason, as times go, /think,” said he: “poor
souls, what better means of judging have they ? how
can you hope they will like ‘ the Scripture moveth us ?’
Eeally you are making too much of it. This is only the
second time I have been there, and, I tell you in earnest,
I find my mind filled with awe and devotion there; as
I think you would too. I really am better for it; I
cannot pray in church; there’s a bad smell there, and
the pews hide every thing; I can’t see through a deal
board. But here, when I went in, I found all still and
calm, the space open, and, in the twilight, the Tabernacle,
just visible, pointed out by the lamp.” Charles looked
very uncomfortable. “Eeally, Willis,” he said, “I
don’t know what to say to you. Heaven forbid that I
should speak against the Eoman Catholics; I know
nothing about them. But this I know, that you are not
a Eoman Catholic, and have no business there. If they
have such sacred things among them as you allude to,
still these are not yours ; you are an intruder. I know
nothing about it; I don’t like to give a judgment, I am
sure. But it’s a tampering with sacred things; running78

LOSS AND GAIN.

here and there, touching and tasting, taking up, putting
down. I don’t like it,” he added with vehemence; “ it’s
taking liberties with God.” “ Oh, my dear Reding,
please don’t speak so very severely,” said poor "Willis ;
“ now what have I done more than you would do your-
self, were you in France or Italy ? Do you mean to say
you wouldn’t enter the churches abroad ? ” “I will only
decide about what is before me,” answered Reding;
“ when I go abroad, then will be the time to think about
your question. It is. quite enough to know what we
ought to do at the moment, and I am clear you have
been doing wrong. How did you find your way there ?”
“ White took me.” “ Then there is one man in the
world more thoughtless than you: do many of the
gownsmen go there ? ” “Not that I know of; one or
two have gone from curiosity; there is no practice of
going, at least this is what I am told.” “ Well,” said
Charles, “ you must promise me you will not go again.
Come, we won’t part till you do.” “ That is too much,”
said Willis, gently ; then, disengaging his arm from
Reding’s, he suddenly darted away from him, saying,
“ Good-bye, good-bye ; to our -next merry meeting—
au revoir.”

There was no help for it. Charles walked slowly
home, saying to himself: “ What if, after all, the Ro-
man Catholic Church is the true church ? I wish I
knew what to believe; no one will tell me what to be-
lieve ; I am so left to myself.” Then he thought: “ I
suppose I know quite enough for practice—more than
I do practise; and I ought surely to be contented and
thankful.”LOSS AND GAIN.

79

CHAPTER XII.

Chables was an affectionate son, and the Long Vaca-
tion passed very happily at home. He was up early, and
read steadily till luncheon, and then he was at the ser-
vice of his father, mother, and sisters for the rest of the
day. He loved the calm, quiet country; he loved the
monotonous flow of time, when each day is like the
other; and, after the excitement of Oxford, the secluded
parsonage was like a haven beyond the tossing of the
waves. The whirl of opinions and perplexities which
had encircled him at Oxford, now were like the distant
sound of the ocean—they reminded him of his present
security. The undulating meadows, the green lanes, the
open heath, the common with its wide-spreading dusky
elms, the high timber which fringed the level path from
village to village, ever and anon broken and thrown into
groups, or losing itself in copses—even the gate, and the
stile, and the turnpike-road had the charm, not of
novelty, but of long familiar use ; they had the poetry
of many recollections. Nor was the dilapidated deformed
church, with its outside staircases, its unsightly galleries,
its wide intruded windows, its uncouth pews, its low
nunting table, its forlorn vestry, and its damp earthy
smell, without its pleasant associations to the inner man;
for there it was that, for many a year, Sunday after Sun-
day, he had heard his dear father read and preach;
there were the old monuments, with Latin inscriptions,
and strange devices, the black boards with white letters,
the Resurgams and grinning skulls, the fire-buckets, the
faded militia-colours, and, almost as much a fixture, the
old clerk, with a Welsh wig over his ears, shouting the
responses out of place—which had arrested his imagi-80

LOSS AND GAIN.

nation, and awed him when a child. And then, there
was his home itself; its well-known rooms, its pleasant
routine, its order, and its comfort—an old and true
friend, the dearer to him because he had made new ones.
“ Where I shall be in time to come, I know not,” he
said to himself; “ I am but a hoy; many things which
I have not a dream of, which my imagination cannot
compass, may come on me before I die—if I live ; but
here at least, and now, I am happyJkand I will enjoy my
happiness. Some say that school is the pleasantest
time of one’s life; this does not exclude college. I sup-
pose care is what makes life so wearing. At present I
have no care, no responsibility ; I suppose I shall feel a
little when I go up for my degree. Care is a terrible
thing; I have had a little of it at times at school.
What a strange thing to fancy, I shall be one day twenty-
five or thirty ! How the weeks are flying by! the Va-
cation will soon be over. Oh, I am so happy, it quite
makes me afraid. Yet I shall have strength for my day.”
Sometimes, however, his thoughts took a sadder turn,
and he anticipated the future more vividly than he en-
joyed the present. Mr. Malcolm had come to see them,
after an absence from the parsonage for some years ; his
visit was a great pleasure to Mr. Reding, and not much
less to himself, to whom a green home and a family
circle were agreeable sights, after his bachelor-life at
college. He had been a great favourite with Charles
and his sisters as children, though now his popularity
with them for the most part rested on the memory of
the past. When he told them amusing stories, or
allowed them to climb his knee and take off his specta-
cles, he did all that was necessary to gain their childish
hearts; more is necessary to conciliate the affection ofLOSS AND GAIN.

81

young men and women ; and thus it is not surprising
that he lived in their minds principally by prescription.
He neither knew this, nor would have thought much
about it, if he had; for, like many persons of advancing

not care to enter into the minds of others, did not coii-
sult for them, or find his happiness in them. He was
kind and friendly to the young people, as he would be
kind to a canary-bird or a lapdog; it was a sort of ex-
ternal love ; and, though they got on capitally with him,
they did not miss him when gone, nor would have been
much troubled to know that he was never to come again.
Charles drove him about the country, stamped his let-
ters, secured him his newspapers from the neighbour-
ing town, and listened to his stories about Oxford and
Oxford men. He really liked him, and wished to please
him; but, as to consulting him in any serious matter,
or going to him for comfort in affliction, he would as
soon have thought of betaking him to Dan the pedlar,
or old Isaac who played the Sunday bassoon.

“ How have your peaches been this year, Malcolm ?”
said Mr. Heding one day after dinner to his guest.
“You ought to knowthat we have no peachesin Oxford,”
answered Mr. Malcolm. “ My memory plays me false,
then; I had a vision of, at least, October peaches on one
occasion, and fine ones too.” “ Ah, you mean at old
Tom Spindle’s, the jockey’s,” answered Mr. Malcolm;
“ it’s true, he had a bit of brick wall, and was proud of
it. But peaches come when there is no one in Oxford
to eat them; so either the tree, or at least the fruit, is a
great rarity there. Oxford wasn’t so empty once; you
have old mulberry-trees there in record of better days.”
“ At that time too,” said Charles, “ I suppose, the more82

LOSS AND GAIN.

expensive fruifs were not cultivated. Mulberries are the
witness, not only of a full college, but of simple tastes.”

“ Charles is secretly cutting at our hothouse here,” said
Mr. Reding ; “ as if our first father did not prefer fruits
and flowers to beef and mutton.” “ No, indeed,” said
Charles, “ I think peaches capital things; and as to
flowers, I am even too fond of scents.” “ Charles has
some theory, then, about scents, I’ll be bound,” said his
father; “ I never knew a boy who so placed his likings
and dislikings on fancies. Hebegan to eat olives directly
he read the CEdipus of Sophocles; and I verily believe,
will soon give up oranges from his dislike to King
William.” “ Every one does so,” said Charles : “ who
would not be in the fashion ? There’s Aunt Kitty, she
calls a bonnet ‘ a sweet ’ one year, which makes her ‘ a
perfect fright ’ the next.” “ You’re right, papa, in this
instance,” said his mother; “ I know he has some good
reason, though I never can recollect it, why he smells a
rose, or distils lavender. What is it, my dear Mary ?”
“ ‘ Relics ye are of Eden’s bowers,* ” said she. “Why,
sir, that was precisely your own reason just now,” said
Charles to his father. “ There’s more than that,” said
Mr. Reding, “ if I knew what it was.” “ He thinks
the scent more intellectual than the other senses,” said
Mary, smiling. “ Such a boy for paradoxes !” said his
mother. “ Well, so it is in a certain way,” said Charles ;
“ but I can’t explain. Sounds and scents are more
ethereal, less material; they have no shape—like the
angels.” Mr. Malcolm laughed. “Well, I grant it,
Charles,” he said ; “ they are length without breadth!”
“ Did you ever hear the like ?” said Mrs. Reding, laugh-
ing too ; “ don’t encourage him, Mr. Malcolm; you are
worse than he. Angels length without breadth!”LOSS AND GAIN.

83

“They pass from place to place, they come, they go,"
continued Mr. Malcolm. “ They conjure up the past
so vividly,” said Charles.

“But sounds surely mor^ than scents,” said Mr. Mal-
colm. “ Pardon me; the reverse as I think,” answered
Charles. “ That is a paradox, Charles,” said Mr. Mal-
colm ; “ the smell of roast beef never went further than
to remind a man of dinner ; but sounds are pathetic and
inspiring.” “ Well, sir, but think of this,” said Charles;
“ scents are complete in themselves, yet do not consist
of parts. Think how very distinct the smell of a rose is
from a pink, a pink from a sweet-pea, a sweet-pea from
a stock, a stock from lilac, lilac from lavender, lavender
from jasmine, jasmine from honeysuckle, honeysuckle
from hawthorn, hawthorn from hyacinth, hyacinth—”
“ Spare us,” interrupted Mr. Malcolm; “ you are going
through the index of Loudon ? ” “ And these are only
the scents of flowers ; how different flowers smell from
fruits, fruits from spices, spices from roast beef or pork
cutlets, and so on. Now, what I was coming to is this
—these scents are perfectly distinct from each other,
and sui generis; they never can be confused ; yet each
is communicated to the apprehension in an instant.
Sights take up a great space, a tune is a succession of
sounds ; but scents are at once specific and complete, yet
indivisible. Who can halve a scent ? they need neither
time nor space ; thus they are immaterial or spiritual.”
“ Charles hasn’t been to Oxford for nothing,” said hi6
mother, laughing and looking at Mary; “ this is what I
call chopping logic!”

“Well done, Charles,” cried Mr. Malcolm; “and
now, since you have such clear notions of the power of
smells, you ought, like the man in the story, to be satis-84

LOSS AND GAIN.

fied with smelling at your dinner, and grow fat upon it.
It’s a shame you sit down to table.” “ Well, sir,” an-
swered Charles, “ some people do seem to thrive on snuff
at least.” “ For shame, Charles !” said Mr. Malcolm ;
“ you have seen me use the common-room snuff-box to
keep myself awake after dinner; but nothing more. I
keep a hox in my pocket merely as a bauble : it was a
present. You should have lived when I was young.
There was old Dr. Troughton of Nun’s Hall, he carried
his snuff loose in his pocket; and old Mrs. Vice-Prin-
cipal Daffy used to lay a train along her arm, and fire it
with her nose. Doctors of medicine took it as a preser-
vative against infection, and doctors of divinity against
drowsiness in church.” “ They take wine against in-
fection now,” said Mr. Reding; “ it’s a much surer pro-
tective.” “Wine?” cried Mr. Malcolm, “oh, they
didn’t take less wine then, as you and I know. On cer-
tain solemn occasions they made apoint of getting drunk,
the whole college, from the Vice-Principal or Sub-War-
den down to the scouts. Heads of houses were kept in
order by their wives ; but I assure you the jolly god
came very near Mr. Vice-Chancellor himself. There
was old Dr. Sturdy of St. Michael’s, a great martinet
in his time. One day the King passed through Oxford ;
Sturdy, a tall, upright, iron-faced man, had to meet him
in procession at Magdalen Bridge, and walked down with
his pokers before him, gold and silver, vergers, cocked
hats, and the rest. There wasn’t one of them that
wasn’t in liquor. Think of the good old man’s horror,
Majesty in the distance, and his own people swaying to
and fro under his very nose, and promising to leave him
for the gutter before the march was ended.” “ No one
can get tipsy with snuff, I grant,” said Mr. Reding; “butLOSS .AND GAIN.

85

if wine has done some men harm, it has done others a
deal of good.” “ Hair-powder is as bad as snuff,” said
Mary, preferring the former subject; “there’s old Mr.
Butler of Cooling; his wig is so large and full of pow-
der, that when he nods his head, I am sure to sneeze.”

“ Ah, but all these are accidents, young lady,” said
Mr. Malcolm, put out by this block to the conversation,
and running off somewhat testily in another direction;
“ accidents after all. Old people are always the same;
so are young. Each age has its own fashion: if Mr.
Butler wore no wig, still there would be something about
him odd and strange to young eyes. Charles, don’t you
be an old bachelor. No one cares for old people.
Marry, my dear boy ; look out betimes for a virtuous
young woman, who will make you an attentive wife.”
Charles slightly coloured, and his sister laughed as if
there was some understanding between them. Mr. Mal-
colm continued; “ Don’t wait till you want some one to
buy flannel for your rheumatism or gout; marry be-
times.” “ You will let me take my degree first, sir ? ”
said Charles. “ Certainly take your M.A.’s if you will;
but don’t become an old Eellow. Don’t wait till forty;
people make the strangest mistakes.” “Dear Charles
will make a kind and affectionate husband, I am sure,”
said his mother, “ when the time comes; and come it
will, though not just yet. Yes, my dear boy,” she
added, nodding at him, “ you will not be able to escape
your destiny, when it comes.” “ Charles, you must
know,” Baid Mr. Reding to his guest, “ is romantic in
his notions just now. I believe it is, that he thinks no
one good enough for him. Oh, my dear Charlie, don’t
let me pain you, I meant nothing serious; but some-
how he has not hit it off very well with some young ladies86

LOSS AND GAIN.

here, who expected more attention than he cared to
give.” “ I am sure,” said Mary, “ Charles is most at-
tentive whenever there is occasion, and always has his
eyes about him to do a service; only he’s a bad hand at
small talk.” “ All will come in time, my dear,” said his
mother; “ a good son makes a good husband.” “ And
a very loving papa,” said Mr. Malcolm. “ Oh, spare me,
sir,” said poor Charles ; “ how have I deserved this ? ”
“ "Well,” proceeded Mr. Malcolm, “ and young ladies
ought to marry betimes too.” “ Come, Mary, your turn
is coming,” cried Charles; and taking his sister’s hand,
he threw up the sash, and escaped with her into the
garden.

They crossed the lawn, and took refuge in a shrub-
bery. “ How strange it is!” said Mary, as they strolled
along the winding walk ; “ we used to like Mr. Malcolm
so, as children; but now I like him still, but he is not the
same.” “ We are older,” said her brother; “ different
things take us now.” “ He used to be so kind,” con-
tinued she; “ when he was coming, the day was looked
out for; and mamma said, ‘ Take care you be good
when Mr. Malcolm comes.’ And he was sure to bring
a twelfth-cake, or a Noah’s ark, or something of the
sort. And then he romped with us, and let us make fun
of him.” “ Indeed it isn’t he that is changed,” said
Charles, “ but we ; we are in the time of life to change ;
we have changed already, and shall change still.”
“ What a mercy it is,” said his sister, “ that we are so
happy among ourselves as a family! If we change, we
shall change together, as apples of one stock; if one
fails, the other does. Thus we are always the same to
each other.” “It is a mercy, indeed,” said Charles;
“ we are so blest, that I am sometimes quite frightened.”LOSS AND GAIN.

87

His sister looked earnestly at him. He laughed a little*
to turn off the edge of his seriousness. “ You would
know what I mean, dear Mary, if you had read Herodo-
tus. A Greek tyrant feared his own excessive prosperity,
and therefore made a sacrifice to fortune. I mean, he
gave up something which he held most precious; he took
a ring from his finger and cast it into the sea, lest the
Deity should afflict him, if he did not afflict himself.”
“ My dear Charles, if we do but enjoy God’s gifts thank-
fully, and take care not to set our hearts on them or to
abuse them, we need not fear for their continuance.”
“ "Well,” said Charles, “ there’s one text which has ever
dwelt on my mind, ‘ Rejoice with trembling.’ I can’t
take full unrestrained pleasure in any thing.” “ Why
not, if you look at it as God’s gift ? ” asked Mary. “ I
don’t defend it,” he replied ; “ it’s my way ; it may be
a selfish prudence, for what I know; but I am sure that,
did I give my heart to any creature, I should be with-
drawing it from God. How easily could I idolise these
sweet walks, which we have known for so many years!”
They walked on in silence. “Well,” said Mary,
“ whatever we lose, no change can affect us as a family.
While we are we, we are to each other what nothing
external can be to us, whether as given or as taken
away.” Charles made no answer. “ What has come
to you, dear Charles ?” she said, stopping and looking at
him ; then, gently removing his hair and smoothing his
forehead, she said, “You are so sad to day.” “ Dearest
Mary,” he made answer, “ nothing’s the matter, indeed.
I think it is Mr. Malcolm who has put me out. It’s so
stupid to talk of the prospects of a boy like me. Don’t
look so, I mean nothing; only it annoys me.” Mary
smiled. “ What I mean is,” continued Charles, “that88

LOSS AND GAIN.

•

we can rely on nothing here, and are fools if we build on
the future.” “We can rely on each other,” she repeated.
“ Ah, dear Mary, don’t say so ; it frightens me.” She
looked round at him surprised, and almost frightened
herself. “ Dearest,” he continued, “ I mean nothing ;
only every thing is so uncertain here below.” “We
are sure of each other, Charles.” “ Yes, Mary,” and he
kissed her affectionately, “ it is true, most true ;” then
he added, “ all I meant was, that it seems presump-
tuous to say so. David and Jonathan were parted ;
St. Paul and St. Barnabas.” Tears stood in Mary’s
eyes. “ Oh, what an ass I am,” he said, “ for thus
teasing you about nothing; no, I only mean that there
is One only who cannot die, who never changes, only
one. It can’t be wrong to remember this. Do you re-
collect Cowper’s beautiful lines ? I know them without
having learned them—they struck me so much the first
time I read them —and he repeated them:

Thou art the source and centre of all minds,

Their only point of rest, Eternal Word.

From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove
At random, without honour, hope, or peace.

From Thee is all that soothes the life of man,

His high endeavour and his glad success,

His strength to suffer and his will to serve.

But oh, Thou Sovereign Giver of all good,

Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown ;

Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor,

And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.

CHAPTEE XIII.

October came at length, and with it Charles’s thoughts
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89

by; then a few days ; and it was time to be packing.
His father parted with him with even greater emotion
than when he first went to school. He would himself
drive him in the phaeton to the neighbouring town, from
which the omnibus ran to the, railroad, though he had
the gout flying about him ; and when the moment for
parting came, he could not get himself to give up his
hand, as if he had something to say which he could not
recollect or master. “ Well, Christmas will soon come,”
he said; “ we must part, it’s no use delaying it. Write
to us soon, dear boy ; and tell us all about yourself and
your matters. Tell us about your friends; they are
nice young men apparently: but I have great confidence
in your prudence; you have more prudence than some
of them. Your tutor seems a valuable man, from what
you tell me,” he went on repeating what had passed
between him and Charles many times before; “ a sound,
well-judging man, that Mr. Vincent. Sheffield is too
clever: he is young: you have an older head. It’s no
good my going on; I have said all this before; and you
may be late for, the rail. Well, God bless you, my
dearest Charlie, and make you a blessing. May you be
happier and better than your father! I have ever been
blest all my life long—wonderfully blest.	Blessings

have been poured on me from my youth, far above my
deserts; may they be doubled upon you ! Good-bye,
my beloved Charles, good-bye!”

Charles had to pass a day or two at the house of a re-
lative who lived a little way out of London. While he was
there, a letter arrived for him, forwarded from home;
it was from Willis, dated from London, and announced
that he had come to a very important decision, and
should not return to Oxford. Charles was fairly in the90

LOSS AND GAIN.

world again, plunged into the whirl of opinions : how
sad a contrast to his tranquil home! There was no
mistaking what the letter meant; and he set out at once
with the chance of finding the writer at the house from
which he dated it. It was a lodging at the west-end of
town; and he readied it about noon.

He found Willis in company with a person apparently
two or three years older. Willis started on seeing him.
“ Who would have thought! what brings you here ? ”
he said; “ I thought you were in the country.” Then
to his companion, “ This is the friend I was speaking to
you about, Morley. A happy meeting; sit down, depr
Reding; I have much to tell you.” Charles sat down
all suspense, looking at Willis with such keen anxiety,
that the latter was forced to cut the matter short.
“ Reding, I am a Catholic.” Charles threw himself
back in his chair, and turned pale. “ My dear Reding,
what is the matter with you ? why don’t you speak to
me?” Charles was still silent; at last, stooping for-
ward, with his elbows on his knees, and his head on his
hands, he said in a low voice, “ 0 WiUia> what have
you done!” “ Done?” said Willis; “ what you should
do, and half Oxford besides. O Reding, I’m so happy! ”
“Alas, alas!” said Charles; “but what is the good of
my staying ?—all good attend you, Willis; good-bye! ”
“No, my good Reding, you don’t leave me so soon,
having found me so unexpectedly; and you have had a
long walk, I dare say; sit down, there’s a good fellow;
we shall have luncheon soon, and you must not go with-
out taking your part in it.” He took Charles’s hat from
him, as he spoke; and Charles, in a mixture of feelings,
let him have his way. “ 0 Willis, so you have separated
yourself from us for ever!” he said; “you have takenLOSS AND GAIN.

91

your course, we keep ours: our paths are different.”
“ Not so,” said Willis; “ you must follow me, and we
shall be one still.” Charles was half offended; “ Eeally
I must go,” he said, and he rose; “you must not talk
in that manner.” “ Pray, forgive me,” answered Willis;
“ I won’t do so again; but I could not help it; I am
not in a common state, I’m so happy.”

A thought struck Reding. “ Tell me, Willis,” he said,
“ your exact position; in what sense are you a Catholic?
What is to prevent your returning with me to Oxford ? ”
His companion interposed: “I am taking a liberty,
perhaps,” he said ; “ but Mr. Willis has been regularly
received into the Catholic Church.” “ I have not intro-
duced you,” said Willis. “ Reding, let me introduce Mr.
Morley; Morley, Mr. Reding. Tes, Reding, I owe it
to him that I am a Catholic. I have been on a tour with
him abroad. We met with a good priest in Prance,
who consented to receive my abjuration.” “Well, I
think he might profitably have examined into your
state of mind a little before he did so,” said Reding;
“you are not the person to become a Catholic, Willis.”
“ What do you mean ? ” “ Because,” answered Reding,
“ you are more of a dissenter than a Catholic. I beg
your pardon,” he added, seeing Willis look up sharply,
“ let me be frank with you, pray do. You were attached
to the Church of Rome, not as a child to a mother, but
in a wayward roving way, as a matter of fancy or liking,
or (excuse me) as a greedy boy to some object of taste;
and you pursued your object by disobeying the autho-
rities set over you.” It was as much as Willis could
bear; he said, he thought he recollected a text about
“obeying God rather than men.” “I see you have
disobeyed men,” retorted Charles; “I trust you have92

LOSS AND GAIN.

been obeying God.” Willis thought him rude, and
would not speak.

Mr. Morley began: “ If you knew the circumstances
better,” he said, “you would doubtless judge differently.
I consider Mr. Willis to be just the very person on whom
it was incumbent to join the Church, and who will make
an excellent Catholic. You must blame, not the venera-
ble priest who received him, but me. The good man
saw his devotion, his tears, his humility, his earnest de-
sire ; but the state of his mind he learned through me,
who speak French better than Mr. Willis. However, he
had quite enough conversation with him in French and
Latin. He could not reject a postulant for salvation;
it was impossible. Had you been he, you would have
done the same.” “ Well, sir, perhaps I have been un-
just to him and you,” said Charles; “however, I can-
not augur well of this.” “You are judging, sir,”
answered Mr. Morley, “ let me say it, of things you do
not know. You do not know what the Catholic religion
is; you do not know what its grace is, or the gift of
faith.” The speaker was a layman; he spoke with
earnestness the more intense, because quiet. Charles
felt himself reproved by his manner; his good taste
suggested to him that he had been too vehement in the
presence of a stranger; yet he did not feel the less con-
fidence in his cause. He paused before he answered;
then he said briefly, that he was aware that he did not
know the Homan Catholic religion, but he knew Mr.
Willis. He could not help giving his opinion that good
would not come of it. “ I have ever been a Catholic,”
said Mr. Morley; “ so far I cannot judge of members
of the Church of England; but this I know, that the
Catholic Church is the only true church. I may beLOSS AND GAIN.

93

wrong in many things; I cannot be wrong in this. This
too I know, that the Catholic faith is one, and that
no other church has faith. The Church of England
has no faith. You, my dear sir, have not faith.”

This was a home-thrust; the controversies of Oxford
passed before Reding’s mind; but he instantly recovered
himself. “ You cannot expect,” said he, smiling, “ that
I, almost a boy, should be able to argue with yourself, or
to defend my church or to explain her faith. I am con-
tent to hold that faith, to hold what she holds, without
professing to be a divine. This is the doctrine which I
have been taught at Oxford. I am under teaching there,
I am not yet taught. Excuse me, then, if I decline an
argument with you. With Mr. Willis, it is natural that
I should argue; we are equals, and understand each
other; but I am no theologian.” Here Willis cried out,
“ O my dear Reding, what I say is, ‘ Come and see.’
Don’t stand at the door arguing: but enter the great
home of the soul, enter and adore.” “ But,” said Reding,
“ surely God wills us to be guided by reason; I don’t
mean that reason is every thing, but it is at least some-
thing. Surely we ought not to act without it, against
it.” “ But is not doubt a dreadful state ? ” said Willis,
“ a most perilous state ?' No state is safe but that of
faith. Can it be safe to be without faith ? Now have
you faith in your church ? I know you well enough to
know you have not; where, then, are you ?” “ Willis,
you have misunderstood me most extraordinarily,” said
Charles: “ten thousand thoughts pass through the mind,
and if it is safe to note down and bring against a man
his stray words, I suppose there’s nothing he mayn’t be
accused of holding. You must be alluding to some half
sentence or other of mine, which I have forgotten, and94

LOSS AND GAIN.

which, was no real sample of my sentiments. Do you
mean I have no worship ? and does not worship pre-
suppose faith ? I have much to learn, I am conscious;
but I wish to learn it from the church under whose
shadow my lot is cast, and with whom I am content.”
“ He confesses,” said Willis, “ that he has no faith; he
confesses that he is in doubt. My dear Reding, can you
sincerely plead that you are in invincible ignorance after
what has passed between us ? now, suppose for an in-
stant that Catholicism is true, is it not certain that you
now have an opportunity of embracing it ? and if you
do not, are you in a state to die in ?”

Reding was perplexed how to answer; that is, he
could not with the necessary quickness analyse and put
into words the answer which his reason suggested to
Willis’s rapid interrogatories. Mr. Morley had kept
silence, lest Charles should have two upon him at once ;
but when Willis paused, and Charles did not reply, he
interposed. He said that all the calls in Scripture were
obeyed with promptitude by those who were called;
and that our Lord would not suffer one man even to go
and bury his father. Reding answered, that in those
cases the voice of Christ was actually heard; He was
on earth, in bodily presence; now, however, the very
question was, which was the voice of Christ ? and whe-
ther the Church of Rome did or did not speak with the
voice of Christ ? That surely we ought to act prudently;
that Christ could not wish us to act otherwise; that for
himself, he had no doubt that he was in the place where
Providence wished him to be; but, even if he had any
doubts whether Christ was calling him elsewhere (which
he had not), but if he had, he should certainly think
that Christ called him in the way and method of care-LOSS AND GAIN.

95

ful examination,—that prudence was the divinely ap-
pointed means of coming at the truth. “ Prudence!”
cried Willis, “ such prudence as St. Thomas’s, I suppose,
when be determined to see before believing.” Charles
hesitated to answer. “ I see it,” continued Willis; and
starting up, he seized his arm; “ come, my dear fellow,
come with me directly ; let us go to the good priest who
lives two streets off. You shall be received this very
day. On with your hat.” And before Charles could
Bhow any resistance, he was half out of the room. He
could not help laughing, in spite of his vexation; he
disengaged his arm, and deliberately sat down. “ Not
so fast,” he said; “we are not quite this sort of per-
son.” Willis looked awkward for a moment; then he
said, “Well, at least you must go into a retreat; you
must go forthwith. Morley, do you know when Mr. de
Mowbray or Father Agostino gives his next retreat ?
Reding, it is just what you want, just what all Oxford
men want; I think you will not refuse me.” Charles
looked up in his face, and smiled. “ It is not my line,”
he said at length. “ I am on my way to Oxford. I
must go. I came here to be of use to you; I can be of
none, so I must go. Would I could be of service; but
it is hopeless. Oh, it makes my heart ache.” And he
went on brushing his hat with his glove, as if on the
point of rising, yet loath to rise.

Morley now struck in: he spoke all along like a
gentleman, and a man of real piety, but with a great
ignorance of Protestants, or how they were to be treated.
“ Excuse me, Mr. Reding,” he said, “ if, before you go,
I say one word. I feel very much for the struggle which
is going on in your mind; and I am sure it is not for
such as me to speak harshly or unkindly to you. The96

LOSS AND GAIN.

struggle between conviction and motives of this world is
often long; may it have a happy termination in your
case! Do not be offended if I suggest to you that the
dearest and closest ties, such as your connexion with the
Protestant Church involves, may be on the side of the
world in certain cases. It is a sort of martyrdom to have
to break such; but they who do so have a martyr’s reward.
And then at a University you have so many inducements
to fall in with the prevailing tone of thought; prospects,
success in life, good opinion of friends—all these things
are against you. They are likely to choke the good seed.
Well, I could have wished that you had been able to fol-
low the dictates of conscience at once; but the conflict
must continue its appointed time; we will hope that all
will end well.”

“ I can’t persuade these good people,” thought
Charles, as he closed the street-door after him, “ that I
am not in a state of conviction, and struggling against
it; how absurd! Here I come to reclaim a deserter, and
I am seized even bodily, and against my will all but hur-
ried into a profession of faith. Do these things happen
to people every day? or is there some particular fate
with me thus to be brought across religious contro-
versies which I am not up to ?* Ia Roman Catholic!
what a contrast all this with quiet Hartley !” naming
his home. As he continued to think on what had passed,
he was still less satisfied with it or with himself. He
had gone to lecture, and he had been lectured; and he
had let out his secret state of mind: no, not let out, he
had nothing to let out. He had indeed implied that
he was inquiring after religious truth, but every Pro-
testant inquires ; he would not be a Protestant if he
did not. Of course he was seeking the truth; it wasLOSS AND GAIN.

97

his duty to do so ; he recollected distinctly his- tutor
laying down, on one occasion, the duty of private judg-
ment. This was the very difference between Protestants
and Catholics; Catholics begin, with faith, Protestants
with inquiry ; and he ought to have said this to Willis.
He was provoked he had not said it; it would have sim-
plified the question, and shown how far he was from
being unsettled. Unsettled! it was most extravagant.
He wished this had but struck him during the conver-
sation, but it was a relief that it struck him now; it re-
conciled him to his position.

CHAPTER XIV.

The first day of Michaelmas term is, to an under-
graduate’s furniture, the brightest day of the year.
Much as Charles regretted home, he rejoiced to see old
Oxford again. The porter had acknowledged him at the
gate, and his scout had smiled and bowed, as he ran up
the worn staircase and found a blazing fire to welcome
him. The coals crackled and split, and threw up a
white flame in Btrong contrast with the newly-blackened
bars and hobs of the grate. A shining copper kettle
hissed and groaned under the internal torment of water
at boiling point. The chimney-glass had been cleaned,
the carpet beaten, the curtains fresh glazed. A tea-tray
and tea-commons were placed on the table; besides a
battel paper, two or three cards from tradesmen who
desired his patronage, and a note from a friend whose
term had already commenced. The porter came in with
his luggage, and had just received his too ample remu-
neration, when, through the closing door, in rushed
Sheffield in his travelling dress.98

LOSS AND GAIN.

“ Well, old fellow, bow are you ? ” be said, shaking
both of Charles’s hands or rather arms with all his
might; “ here we are all again; I am just come like
you. Where have you been all this time ? Come, tell
us all about yourself. Give me some tea, and let’s
have a good jolly chat.” Charles liked Sheffield, he
liked Oxford, he was pleased to get back ; yet he had
some remains of home-sickness on him, and was not
quite in cue for Sheffield’s good-natured boisterousness.
Willis’s matter, too, was still on his mind. “ Have you
heard the news ?” said Sheffield; “ I have been long
enough in college to pick it up. The kitchen-man was
full of it as I passed along. Jack’s a particular friend
of mine, a good honest fellow, and has all the gossip of
the place. I don’t know what it means, but Oxford has
just now a very bad inside. The report is, that some
of the men have turned Eomans ; and they say that
there are strangers going about Oxford whom no one
knows any thing of. Jack, who is a bit of a divine him-
self, says he heard the Principal say that, for certain,
there were Jesuits at the bottom of it; and I don’t
know what he means, but he declares he saw with his
own eyes the Pope walking down High Street with the
priest. I asked him how he knew it ? he said he knew
the Pope by his slouching hat and his long beard; and
the porter told him it was the Pope. The Dons have
met several times; and several tutors are to be discom-
moned, and their names stuck up against the buttery-
door. Meanwhile the Marshal, with two bull-dogs, is
keeping guard before the Catholic chapel; and, to com-
plete it, that old drunken fellow Topham is reported, out
of malice, when called in to cut the Warden of St. Mary’s
hair, to have made a clean white tonsure a-top of him.”LOSS AND GAIN.

99

“ My dear Sheffield, how you run on!” said-Beding.
“ Well, do you know, I can tell you a piece of real news
bearing on these reports, and not of the pleasantest.
Did you know Willis, of St. George’s ?”	“ I think I

once saw him at wine in your rooms; a modest, nice-
looking fellow, who never spoke a word.” “ Ah, I as-
sure you, he has a tongue in his head when it suits
him,” answered Charles: “yet I do think,” he added
musingly, “ he’s very much changed, and not for the
better.” “ Well, what’s the upshot ?” asked Sheffield.
“ He has turned Catholic,” said Charles. “ What a
fool!” cried Sheffield. There was a pause. Charles
felt awkward: then he said: “ I can’t say I was sur-
prised ; yet I should have'been less surprised at White.”
“ Oh, White won’t turn Catholic,” said Sheffield ; “ he
hasn’t it in him. He’sacoward.” “Fools and cowards!”
answered Charles: “ thus you divide the world, Sheffield ?
Poor Willis !” he added; “ one must respect a man who
acts according to his conscience.” “ What can he know
of conscience ?” said Sheffield; “ the idea of his swallow-
ing, of his own free will, the heap of rubbish which every
Catholic has to believe! in cold blood, tying a collar
round his neck, and politely putting the chain into the
hands of a priest! . . . And then the Confessional!
’Tis marvellous!” and he began to break the coals with
the poker. “ It’s very well,” he continued, “ if a man
is born a Catholic; I don’t suppose they really believe
what they are obliged to profess; but how an English-
man, a gentleman, a man here at Oxford, with all his
advantages, can so eat dirt, scraping and picking up all
the dead lies of the dark ages—it’s a miracle.”

“ Well, if there is any thing that recommends Bo-
manism to me," said Charles, “ it is what you so much100

LOSS AND GAIN.

dislike: I’d give twopence, if some one, whom I could
trust, would say to me: ‘ This is true ; this is not true.’
We should be saved this eternal wrangling. Wouldn’t
you be glad if St. Paul could come to life ? I’ve often
said to myself: ‘ Oh, that I could ask St. Paul this or
that!’ ” “ But the Catholic Church isn’t St. Paul quite,
I guess,” said Sheffield. “ Certainly not; but supposing
you did think it had the inspiration of an Apostle, as
the Roman Catholics do, what a comfort it would be to
know, beyond all doubt, what to believe about God; and
how to worship and please Him! I mean, you said,
* I can’t believe this or thatnow you ought to have
said, ‘ I can’t believe the Pope has power to decide this
or that.’ If he had, you ought to believe it, whatever
it is, and not to say, ‘I can’t believe.’” Sheffield
looked hard at him: “ We shall have you a papist Borne
of these fine days,” said he. “ Nonsense,” answered
Charles ; “ you shouldn’t say such things, even in jest.”
“ I don’t jest; I am in earnest: you are plainly on the
road.” “ Well, if I am, you have put me on it,” Said
Reding, wishing to get away from the subject as quick
as he could; “ for you are ever talking against shams,
and laughing at King Charles and Laud, Bateman,
White, rood-lofts, and piscinas.”

“ Now you are a Puseyite,” said Sheffield, in surprise.
“ You give me the name of a very good man, whom I
hardly know by sight,” said Reding; “ but I mean, that
nobody knows what to believe, no one has a definite
faith, but the Catholics and the Puseyites; no one says,
‘ This is true, that is false;’ ‘ this comes from the
Apostles, that does not.’ ” “ Then would you believe a
Turk,” asked Sheffield, “ who came to you with his
‘ One Allah, and Mahomet his Prophet ?’ ”	“ I did notLOSS AND GAIN".

101

say a creed was every thing,” answered Keding, “ or
that a religion could not be false which had a creed;
but a religion can’t be true which has none.” “ Well,
somehow that doesn’t strike me,” said Sheffield. “ Now
there was Vincent at the end of term, after you had
gone down,” continued Charles ; “you know I stayed
up for Little-go ; and he was very civil, very civil in-
deed. I had a talk with him about Oxford parties, and
he pleased me very much at the time; hut afterwards,
the more I thought of what he said, the less was I satis-
fied ; that is, I had got nothing definite from him. He
did not say, ‘This is true, that is false;’ but ‘ Be true,
be true, be good, be good, don’t go too far, keep in the
mean, have your eyes about you, eschew parties, follow
our divines, all of them;’—all which was but putting salt
on the bird’s tail. I want some practical direction, not
abstract truths.” “ Vincent is a humbug,” said Shef-
field. “Dr. Pusey, on the other hand,” continued
Charles, “ is said always to be decisive. He says, ‘ This
is Apostolic, that’s in the Bathers; St. Cyprian says
this, St. Augustine denies that; this is safe, that’s wrong;
I bid you, I forbid you.’ I understand all this; but I
don’t understand having duties put on me which are
too much for me. I don’t understand, I dislike, having
a will of my own, when I have not the means to use it
justly. In such a case, to tell me to act of myself, is
like Pharaoh setting the Israelites to make bricks with-
out straw. Setting me to inquire, to judge, to decide,
forsooth ! it’s absurd ; who has taught me ?”

“ But the Puseyites are not always so distinct,” Baid
Sheffield; “there’sSmith, he never speaks decidedly in
difficult questions. I know a man who was going to
remain in Italy for some years, at a distance from any102

LOSS AND GAIN.

English chapel,—he could not help it,—and who came
to ask him if he might communicate in the Catholic
churches; he could not get an answer from him; he
would not say yes or no.” “ Then he won’t have many
followers, that’s all,” said Charles. “ But he has more
than Dr. Pusey,” answered Sheffield. “ Well, I can’t
understand it,” said Charles; “ he ought not; perhaps
they won’t stay.” “ The truth is,” said Sheffield, “ I
suspect he is more of a sceptic at bottom.” “ Well, I
honour the man who builds up,” said Reding, “and I
despise the man who breaks down.” “ I am inclined to
think you have a wrong notion of building up and pull-
ing down,” answered Sheffield; “ Coventry, in his Dis-
sertations, makes it quite clear that Christianity is not a
religion of doctrines.” “Who is Coventry?” “Not know
Coventry ? he’s one of the most original writers of the day;
he’s an American, and, I believe, a congregationalist.
Oh, I assure you you should read Coventry, although
he is wrong on the question of Church-government:
you are not well cm courantW\t\i the literature of the day
unless you do. He is no party man; he is a corre-
spondent of the first men of the day; he stopped with
the Dean of Oxford when he was in England, who has
published an English edition of his ‘Dissertations,’ with
a Preface; and he and Lord Newlights were said to be
the two most witty men at the meeting of the British
Association, two years ago.” “ I don’t like Lord New-
lights,” said Charles, “he seems to me to have no
principle; that is, no fixed, definite religious principle.
You don’t know where to find him. This is what my
father thinks; I have often heard him speak of him.”
“ It’s curious you should use the word principle,” said
Sheffield; “for it is that which Coventry lays suchLOSS AND GAIN.

103

stress on. He says that Christianity has no creed;
that this is the very point in which it is distinguished
from other religions; that you will search the New
Testament in vain for a creed; but that Scripture is full
of principles. The view is very ingenious, and seemed
to me true, when I read the book. According to him,
then, Christianity is not a religion of doctrines or mys-
teries ; and if you are looking for dogmatism in Scrip-
ture, it’s a mistake.” Charles was puzzled. “ Cer-
tainly,” he said, “at first sight there is no creed in
Scripture.—No creed in Scripture,” he said slowly, as
if thinking aloud; “no creed in Scripture, therefore there
is no creed. But the Athanasian Creed,” he added
quickly, “ is that in Scripture ? It either is in Scrip-
ture, or it is not. Let me see, it either is there, or it is
not. . . . What was it that Freeborn said last term ? . . .
Tell me, Sheffield, would the Dean of Oxford say that
the creed was in Scripture or not ? perhaps you do not
fairly explain Coventry’s view; what is your impres-
sion ?” “ Why, I will tell you frankly, my impression
is, judging from his Preface, that he would not scruple
to say that it is not in Scripture, but a scholastic addi-
tion.” “My dear fellow,” said Charles, “do you
mean that he, a dignitary of the church, would say that
the Athanasian Creed was a mistake, because it repre-
sented Christianity as a revelation of doctrines or mys-
teries to be received on faith?” “Well, I may be
wrong,” said Sheffield, “but so I understood him.”
“ After all,” said Charles, Badly, “ it’s not so much more
than that other Dean, I forget his name, said at St.
Mary’s before the Vacation; it’s part of the same sys-
tem. Oh, it was after you went down, or just at the
end of term: you don’t go to sermons; I’m inclined not104

LOSS AND GAIN.

to go either. I can’t enter upon the Dean’s argument;
it’s not worth while. Well,” he added, standing up
and stretching himself, “ I am tired with the day, yet it
has not been a fatiguing one either; but London is so
bustling a place.” “ You wish me to say good night,”
said Sheffield. Charles did not deny the charge; and
the friends parted.

CHAPTER XV.

Thebe could not have been a lecture more unfavourable
for Charles’s peace of mind than that in which he found
himself this term placed ; yet, so blind are we to the fu-
ture, he hailed it with great satisfaction, as if it was to
bring him an answer to the perplexities into which
Sheffield, Bateman, Freeborn, White, Willis, Mr. Mor-
ley, Dr. Brownside, Mr. Vincent, and the general state
of Oxford, had all, in one way or other, conspired to
throw him. He had shown such abilities in the former
part of the year, and was reading so diligently, that his
tutors put him prematurely into the lecture upon the
Articles. It was a capital lecture so far as this, that
the tutor who gave it had got up his subject completely.
He knew the whole history of the Articles, how they
grew into their present shape, with what fortunes, what
had been added, and when, and what omitted. With
this, of course, was joined an explanation of the text, as
deduced, as far as could be, from the historical account
thus given. Not only the British, but the foreign Re-
formers were introduced; and nothing was wanting, at
least in the intention of the lecturer, for fortifying the
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105

. It did not produce this effect on Reding. Whether
he had expected too much, or whatever was the cause,
so it was that he did but feel more vividly the sentiment
of the old father in the comedy, after consulting the
lawyers, “ Incertior sum multo quarn ante.” He saw
that the profession of faith contained in the Articles was
but a patchwork of bits of orthodoxy, Lutheranism,
Calvinism, and Zuinglism ; and this too on no principle;
that it was but the work of accident, if there be such a
thing as accident; that it had come down in the parti-
cular shape in which the English Church now receives it,
when it might have come down in any other shape;
that it was but a toss-up that Anglicans at this day
were not Calvinists, or Presbyterians, or Lutherans,
equally well as Episcopalians. This historical fact did
but clench the difficulty, or rather impossibility, of say-
ing what the faith of the English Church was. On al-
most every point of dispute the authoritative standard of
doctrine was vague or inconsistent, and there was an im-
posing weight of external testimony in favour of opposite
interpretations. He stopped after lecture once or twice,
and asked information of Mr. Upton the tutor, who was
quite ready to give it; but nothing came of these applica-
tions as regards the object which led him to make them.

One difficulty which Charles experienced was, to know
whether, according to the Articles, divine truth was di-
rectly given us, or whether we had to seek it for our-
selves from Scripture. Several Articles led to this
question; and Mr. Upton, who was a High-Churchman,
answered him, that the saving doctrine neither was given
nor was to be sought, but that it was proposed by the
Church, and proved by the individual. Charles did not
see this distinction between seeking and proving; for106

LOSS AND GAIN.

how can we prove except by seeking (in Scripture) for
reasons ? He put the question in another form, and
asked if the Christian Religion allowed of private judg-
ment ? This was no abstruse question, and a very prac-
tical one. Had he asked a Wesleyan or Independent,
he would have had an unconditional answer in the affir-
mative ; had he asked a Catholic, he would have been
told that we used our private judgment to find the
Church, and then the Church superseded it; but from
this Oxford divine he could not get a distinct answer.
First, he was told that doubtless we must use our judg-
ment in the determination of religious doctrine; but
next he was told that it was sin (as it undoubtedly is)
to doubt the doctrine of the Blessed Trinity. Yet,
while he was told that to doubt of that doctrine was a
sin, he was told in another conversation that our highest
state here is one of doubt. What did this mean?
Surely certainty was simply necessary on some points,
as on the Object of worship; how could we worship
what we doubted of ? The two acts were contrasted
by the Evangelist; when the disciples saw our Lord
after the resurrection, “ they worshipped Him, but some
doubtedyet, in spite of this, he Vas told that there
was “ impatience” in the very idea of desiriug certainty.

At another time he asked whether the anathemas of
the Athanasian Creed applied to all its clauses; for in-
stance, whether it is necessary to salvation to hold that
there is “ unus ceternus,” as the Latin has it; or “ such
as the Father, . . . such the Holy Ghostor that the
Holy Ghost is “ by Himself God and Lordor that
Christ is one “ by the taking of the manhood into God ?”
He could get no answer. Mr. Upton said that he did
not like.extreme questions; that he could not and didLOSS AND GAIN.

107

not wish to answer them; that the Creed was written
against heresies, which no longer existed, as a sort of
•protest. Reding asked whether this meant that the
Creed did not contain a distinctive view of its own,
which alone was safe, but was merely a negation of error.
The clauses, he observed, were positive, not negative.
He could get no answer further than that the Creed
taught that the doctrines of “ the Trinity” and “ the In-
carnation” were “necessary to salvation,” it being appa-
rently left uncertain what those doctrines consisted in.
One day he asked how grievous sins were to be for-
given, which were committed after baptism, whether by
faith, or not at all in this life ? He was answered that
the Articles said nothing on the subject; thatthe Romish
doctrine of pardons and purgatory was false; and that
it was well to avoid both curious questions and subtle
answers.

Another question turned up at another lecture, viz.,
whether the Real Presence meant a Presence of Christ
in the elements, or in the soul, i. e. in the faith of the
recipient; that is, whether the Presence was really
such, or a mere name. Mr. Upton pronounced it an
open question. Another day Charles asked whether
Christ was present in fact, or only in effect. Mr.
Upton answered decidedly “in effect,” which seemed to
Reding to mean no real presence at all.

He had had some difficulty in receiving the doctrine
of eternal punishment; it had seemed to him the hardest
doctrine of revelation. Then he said to himself, “ But
what is faith in its very notion but an acceptance of the
word of God, when reason seems to oppose it ? How
is it faith at all, if there is nothing to try it?” This
thought fully satisfied him. The only question was, Is108

LOSS AND GAIN.

it part of the revealed word? “I can believe it,” he
said, “ if I know for certain that I ought to believe it;
but if I atn not bound to believe it, I can’t believe it.”
Accordingly he put the question to Mr. Upton, whether
it was a doctrine of the Church of England; that is,
whether it came under the subscription to the Articles.
He could obtain no answer. Yet if he did not believe
this doctrine, he felt the whole fabric of his faith shake
under him. Close upon it came the doctrine of the
atonement.

It is difficult to give instances of this kind, without
producing the impression on the reader’s mind that
Charles was forward and captious in his inquiries.
Certainly Mr. Upton had his own thoughts about him,
but he never thought his manner inconsistent with
modesty and respect towards himself.

Charles naturally was full of the subject, and would
have disclosed his perplexities to Sheffield, had he not
had a strong anticipation that this would have been
making matters worse. He thought Bateman, however,
might be of some service, and he disburdened himself to
him in the course of a country walk. What was he to
do ? for on his entrance he had been told, that when he
took his degree he should have to sign the Articles, not
on faith as then, but on reason; yet they were unintelli-
gible; and howcouldheprovewhathecouldnotconstrue?

Bateman seemed unwilling to talk on the subject; at
last he said, “ Oh, my dear Beding, you really are in an
excited state of mind; I don’t like to talk to you just
now, for you will not see things in a straightforward
way, and take them naturally. What a bugbear you
are conjuring up ! You are in an Article lecture in your
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109

begin to fancy what you will or will not think at the end
of your time. Don’t ask about the Articles now ; wait
at least till you have seen the lecture through.” “ It
really is not my way to be fussed or to fidget,” said
Charles ; “ though I own I am not so quiet as I ought
to be. I hear so many different opinions in conversa-
tion ; then I go to church, and one preacher deals his
blows at another; lastly, I betake myself to the Articles,
and really I cannot make out what they would teach me.
For instance, I cannot make out their doctrine about
faith, about the sacraments, about predestination, about
the Church, about the inspiration of Scripture. And
their tone is so unlike the Prayer-book. Upton has
brought this out in his lectures most clearly.” “ Now,
my most respectable friend,” said Bateman, “ do think
for a moment what men have signed the Articles. Per-
haps King Charles himself; certainly Laud, and all the
great Bishops of his day, and of the next generation.
Think of the most orthodox Bull, the singularly learned
Pearson, the eloquent Taylor, Montague, Barrow, Thorn-
dike, good dear Bishop Horne, and Jones of Nayland.
Can’t you do what they did ?”	“ The argument is a

very strong one,” said Charles ; “ I have felt it: you
mean, then, I must sign on faith.” “ Tes, certainly, if
necessary,” said Bateman. “ And how am I to sign as
a Master, and when I am ordained ?” asked Charles.
“ That’s what I mean by fidgeting,” answered Bateman.
“ You are not content with your day; you are reaching
forward to five years’ hence.” Charles laughed. “It
isn’t quite that,” he said, “ I was but testing your ad-
vice; however, there’s some truth in it.” And he
changed the subject.

They talked awhile on indifferent matters ; but on a110

LOSS AND GAIN.

pause Charles’s thoughts fell back again to the Articles.
“ Tell me, Bateman,” he said, “ as a mere matter of cu-
riosity, how you subscribed when you took your degree.”
“ Oh, I had no difficulty at all,” said Bateman; “ the
examples of Bull and Pearson were enough for me.”
“ Then you signed on faith.” “ Not exactly, but it was
that thought which smoothed all difficulties.” “ Could
you have signed without it ?”	“ How can you ask me

the question ? of course.” “ Well, do tell me, then, what
was your ground f” “ Oh, I had many grounds. I can't
recollect in a moment what happened some time ago.”
“ Oh, it was a matter of difficulty ; indeed, you said so
just now.” “ Not at all: my only difficulty was, not
about myself, but how to state the matter to other
people.” “What! some one suspected you?” “No, no;
you are quite mistaken. I mean, for instance, the Article
says that we are justified by faith only; now the Protes-
tant sense of this statement is point blank opposite to
our standard divines : the question was, what I was to
say when asked my sense of it.” “ I understand,” said
Charles; “now tell me how you solved the problem.”
“ Well, I don’t deny that the Protestant sense is hereti-
cal,” answered Bateman; “ and so is the Protestant sense
of many other things in the Articles; but then we need
not take them in the Protestant sense.” “ Then in what
sense?” “ Why, first,” said Bateman, “we need not
take them in any sense at all. Don’t smile; listen.
Great authorities, such as Laud or Bramhall, seem to
have considered that we only sign the Articles as articles
of peace; not as really holding them, but as not opposing
them. Therefore, when we sign the Articles, we only
engage not to preach against them.” Beding thought;
then he said: “ Tell me, Bateman, would not this viewLOSS AND GAIN.

Ill

of subscription to the Articles let the Unitarians into the
church ?” Bateman allowed it would, but the Liturgy
would still keep them out. CharleB then went on to
suggest that they would take the Liturgy as a Liturgy of
peace too. Bateman began again.

“ If you want some tangible principle,” he said, “ for
interpreting Articles and Liturgy, I can give you one.
You know,” he continued, after a short pause, “what
it is we hold ? Why, we give the Articles a Catholic
interpretation.” Charles looked inquisitive. “ It is
plain,” continued Bateman, “that no document can be
a dead letter; it must be the expression of some
mind; and the question here is, whose is what may be
called the voice which speaks the Articles. Now, if
the Bishops, Heads of houses, and other dignitaries and
authorities, were unanimous in their religious views, and
one and all said that the Articles meant this and not that,
they, as the imponents, would have a right to interpret
them; and the Articles would mean what they said they
meant. But they do not agree together; some of them
are diametrically opposed to others. One clergyman de-
nies Apostolical Succession, another affirms it; one de-
nies the Lutheran justification, another maintains it;
one denies the inspiration of Scripture, a second holds
Calvin to be a saint, a third considers the doctrine of
sacramental grace a superstition, a fourth takes part with
Nestorius against the Church, a fifth is a Sabellian. It
is plain, then, that the Articles have no sense at all, if
the collective voice of Bishops, Deans, Professors, and
the like is to be taken. They cannot supply what school-
men call the form of the Articles. But perhaps the
writers themselves of the Articles will supply it ? No;
for, first, we don’t know for certain who the writers112

LOSS AND GAIN.

were; and next, the Articles have gone through so
many hands, and so many mendings, that some at least
of the original authors would not like to be responsible
for them. Well, let us go to the Convocations which
ratified them : but they, too, were of different senti-
ments ; the seventeenth century did not hold the doc-
trine of the sixteenth. Such is the state of the case.
On the other hand, we say that if the Anglican Church
be a part of the one Church Catholic, it must, from the
necessity of the case, hold Catholic doctrine. Therefore,
the whole Catholic Creed, the acknowledged doctrine of
the Fathers, of St. Ignatius, St. Cyprian, St. Augustin,
St. Ambrose, is thq form, is the one true sense and in-
terpretation of the Articles. They may be ambiguous
in themselves; they may have been worded with various
intentions by the individuals concerned in their composi-
tion : but these are accidents; the Church knows no-
thing of individuals; she interprets herself.”

Reding took some time to think over this: “ All
this,” he said, “proceeds on the fundamental principle
that the Church of England is an integral part of that
visible body, of which St. Ignatius, St. Cyprian, and the
rest were Bishops; according to the words of Scripture,
‘ one body, one faith.’ ” Bateman assented; Charles
proceeded: “ Then the Articles must not be considered
primarily as teaching; they have no one sense in them-
selves ; they are confessedly ambiguous: they are com-
piled from heterogeneous sources; but all this does not
matter, for all must be interpreted by the teaching of the
Catholic Church.” Bateman agreed in the main, except
that he had stated the case rather too strongly. “ But
what if the latter contradicts a doctrine of the Fathers ?
am I to force the letter ?”	“ If such a case actuallyLOSS AND GAIN.

113

happened, the theory would not hold,” answered Bate-
man ; “ it would only be a gross quibble. You can in
no case sign an Article in a sense which its words will
not bear. But fortunately, or rather providentially, this
is not the case; we have merely to explain ambiguities,
and harmonise discrepancies. The Catholic interpreta-
tion does no greater violence to the text than any other
rule of interpretation will be found to do.” “ Well, but
I know nothing of the Fathers,” said Charles; “ others
too are in the same condition; how am I to learn practi-
cally to interpret the Articles ? ” “ By the Prayer-book;
the Prayer-book is the voice of the Fathers.” “How
so ? ” “ Because the Prayer-book is confessedly ancient,
while the Articles are modern.”

Charles kept silence again: “ It is very plausible,”
he said; he thought on. Presently he asked: “ Is this
a received view ?” “No view is received,”- said Bate-
man ; “ the Articles themselves are received, but there
is no authoritative interpretation of them at all. That’s
what I was saying just now; Bishops and Professors
don’t agree together.” “ Well,” said Charles, “ is it a
tolerated view ?”	“ It has certainly been strongly op-

posed,” answered Bateman; “but it has never been con-
demned.” “ That is no answer,” said Charles, who saw
by Bateman’s manner-how the truth lay. “ Does any
one Bishop hold it ? did any one Bishop ever hold it ?
has it ever been formally admitted as tenable by any one
Bishop ? is it a view got up to meet existing difficulties,
or has it an historical existence ?” Bateman could give
but one answer to these questions, as they were succes-
sively put to him. “ I thought so,” said Charles, when he
had made his answer: “ I know, of course, whose view
you are putting before me, though I never heard it114

LOSS AND GAIN.

drawn out before. It is specious, certainly: I don’t
see but it might have done, had it been tolerably sanc-
tioned ; but you have no sanction to show me. It is,
as it stands, a mere theory struck out by individuals.
Our Church might have adopted this mode of interpret-
ing the Articles; but from what you tell me, it certainly
has not done so. I am where I was.”

CHAPTER XVI.

The thought came across Reding, whether perhaps, after
all, what is called Evangelical Religion was not the true
Christianity : its professors, he knew, were active and
influential, and in past times had been much persecuted.
Ereeborn had surprised and offended him at Bateman’s
breakfast-party before the Vacation; yet Freeborn had
a serious manner about him, and perhaps he had mis-
understood him. The thought, however, passed away as
suddenly as it came, and perhaps would not have oc-
curred to him again, when an accident gave him some
data for determining the question.

One afternoon he was lounging in the Parks, gazing
with surprise on one of those extraordinary lights for
which the neighbourhood of Oxford is at that season
celebrated,and which, as the sun went down, was colour-
ing Marston,Elsfield,and their half-denuded groves with
a pale gold-and-brown hue, when he found himself over-
taken and addressed by the said Freeborn in propria
persona. Freeborn liked a tete-a-tete talk much better
than a dispute in a party; he felt himself at more ad-
vantage in long leisurely speeches, and he was soon put
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115

words amid the ever-varying voices of a breakfast-table.
He thought the present might be a good opportunity
of doing good to a poor youth, who did not know chalk
from cheese, and who, by his means, might be, as he
would word it, “ savingly converted.” So they got into
conversation, talked of Willis’s step, which Freeborn
called awful; and, before Charles knew where he was,
he found himself asking Freeborn what he meant by
“ faith.”

“ Faith,” said Freeborn, “ is a divine gift, and is the
instrument of our justification in God’s sight. We are
all by nature displeasing to Him, till He justifies us freely
for Christ’s sake. Faith is like a hand, appropriating
personally the merits of Christ, or is our justification.
Now, what can we want more, or have more, than those
merits ? Faith, then, is every thing, and does every
thing for us. You see, then, how important it is to have
a right view about justification by faith only. If we are
sound on this capital point, every thing else may take its
chance; we shall at once see the folly of contending
about ceremonies, about forms of Church-government,
about, I will even say, sacraments or creeds. External
things will, in that case, either be neglected, or will find
a subordinate place ” Reding observed that of course
Freeborn did not mean to say that good works were not
necessary for obtaining God’s favour; “ but if they were,
how was justification by faith only ?” Freeborn smiled,
and said that he hoped Reding would have clearer views
in a little time. It was a very simple matter. Faith
not only justified, it regenerated also. It was the root
of sanctification, as well as of divine acceptance. The
same act, which was the means of bringing us into
God’s favour, secured our being meet for it. Thus good116

LOSS AND GAIN.

works were secured, because faith would not be true
faith unless it were such as to be certain of bringing
forth good works in due time.

Reding thought this view simple and clear, though it
unpleasantly reminded him of Dr. Brownside. E reeborn
added, that it was a doctrine suited to the poor, that it
put all the gospel into a nutshell, that it dispensed with
criticism,primitive ages, teachers, in short with authority
in whatever form. It swept theology clean away. There
was no need to mention this last consequence to Charles;
but he passed it by, wishing to try the system on its own
merits. “You speak of true faith,” he said, “as produ-
cing good works : you say that no faith justifies but true
faith, and true faith produces good works. In other
words, I suppose, faith, which is certain to be fruitful, or
fruitful faith, justifies. They is very like saying that
faith and works are the joint means of justification.”
“ Oh, no, no,” cried Freeborn, “ that is deplorable doc-
trine : it is quite opposed to the gospel, it is anti-Chris-
tian. We are justified by faith only, apart from good
works.” “ I am in an Article lecture just now,” said
Charles, “ and Upton told us that we must make a dis-
tinction of this kind; for instance, the Duke of Welling-
ton is Chancellor of the University, but, though he is as
much Chancellor as Duke, still he sits in the House of
Lords as Duke, not as Chancellor. Thus, although faith
is as truly fruitful as it is faith, yet it does not justify as
being fruitful, but as being faith. Is this what you
mean ? ” “ Not at all,” said Freeborn; “ that was Me-
lancthon’s doctrine; he explained away a cardinal truth
into a mere matter of words; he made faith a mere sym-
bol, but this is a departure from the pure gospel: faith
is the instrument, not a symbol of justification. It is, inLOSS AN!D GAIN.

117

truth, a mere apprehension, and nothing else: the seizing
and clinging which a beggar might venture on, when a
king passed by. Faith is as poor as Job in the ashes:
it is like Job stripped of all pride and pomp and good
works : it is covered with filthy rags: it is without any
thing good: it is, I repeat, a mere apprehension. Now
you see what I mean.” “ I can’t believe I understand
you,” said Charles: “you say ■"that to have faith is to
seize Christ’s merits, and that we have them, if we will
but seize them. But surely not every one who seizes
them, gains them; because dissolute men, who never
have a dream of thorough repentance or real hatred of
sin, would gladly seize and appropriate them, if they
might do so. They would like to get to heaven for no-
thing. Faith, then, must be some particular kind of ap-
prehension : what kind ? good works cannot be mistaken,
but an ‘ apprehension ’ may. What, then, is a true ap-
prehension? what is faith ?” ' “ What need, my dear
friend,” ariswered Freeborn, “ of knowing metaphysi-
cally what true faith is, if we have it and enjoy it ? I do
not know what bread is, but I eat it; do I wait till a
chemist analyses it ? No, I eat it, and I feel the good
effects afterwards. And so let us be content to know,
not what faith is, but what it does, and enjoy our bless-
edness in possessing it.” “ I really don’t want to intro-
duce metaphysics,” said Charles, “ but I will adopt your
own image. Suppose I suspected the bread before me
to have arsenic in it, or to be merely unwholesome,
would it be wonderful if I tried to ascertain how the fact
stood ?” “ Did you do so this morning at breakfast ?”
asked Freeborn. “ I did not suspect my bread,” an-
swered Charles. “ Then why suspect faith ?” asked
Freeborn. “ Because it is, so to say, a new substance,”118

LOSS AND GAIN.

—(Freeborn sighed)—“ because I am not used to it,
nay, because I suspect it. I must say suspect it; be-
cause, though I don’t know much about the matter, I
know perfectly well, from what has taken place in my
father’s parish, what excesses this doctrine may lead to,
unless it is guarded. You say that it is a doctrine for
the poor; now they are very likely to mistake one thing
for another; so indeed is every one. If, then, we are
told, that we have but to apprehend Christ’s merits, and
need not trouble ourselves about any thing else; that
justification has taken place, and works will follow; that
all is done, and that salvation is complete, while we do
but continue to have faith; I think we ought to be pretty
sure that we have faith, real faith, a real apprehension,
before we shut up our books and make holiday.”
Freeborn was secretly annoyed that he had got into
an argument, or pained, as he would express it, at the
pride of Charles’s natural man, or the blindness of his
carnal reason; but there was no help for it, he muBt
give him an answer. “ There are, I know, many kinds of
faith,” he said; “and of course you must be on your
guard against mistaking false faith for true faith. Many
persons, as you most truly say, make this mistake; and
most important is it, all important I should say, to go
right. First, it is evident that it is not mere belief in
facts, in the being of a God, or in the historical event
that Christ has come and gone. Nor is it the submis-
sion of the reason to mysteries ; nor, again, is it that sort
of trust which is required for exercising the gift of mira-
cles. Nor is it knowledge and acceptance of the contents
of the Bible. I say, it is not knowledge, it is not assent
of the intellect, it is not historical faith, it is not dead
faith: true justifying faith is none of these—it is seatedLOSS AND GAIN.

119

in the heart and affections.” He paused, then added :
“ Now, I suppose, for practical purposes, I have de-
scribed pretty well what justifying faith is.” Charles
hesitated: “ By describing what it is not, you mean,”
said he; “justifying faith, then, is, I suppose, living
faith.” “ Not so fast,” answered Freeborn. “ Why,”
said Charles, “ if it’s not dead faith, it’s living faith.”
“ It’s neither dead faith nor living,” said Freeborn, “ but
faith, simple faith, which justifies. Luther was displeased
with Melancthon for saying that living and operative
faith justified. I have studied the question very care-
fully.” “ Then do you tell me,” said bharles, “what
faith is, since I do not explain it correctly. For instance,
if you said (what you don’t say), that faith was submis-
sion of the reason to mysteries, or acceptance of Scrip-
ture as an historical document, I should know perfectly
well what you meant; that is information: but when
you say, that faith which justifies is an apprehension of
Christ, that it is not living faith, or fruitful faith, or
operative, but a something which in fact and actually is
distinct from these, I confess I feel perplexed.”

Freeborn wished to be out of the argument. “ Oh,”
he said, “ if you really once experienced the power of
faith—how it changes the heart, enlightens the eyes,
gives a new spiritual taste, a new sense to the soul; if you
once knew what it was to be blind, and then to see, you
would not ask for definitions. Strangers need verbal
descriptions; the heirs of the kingdom enjoy. Oh, if
you could but be persuaded to put off high imaginations,
to strip yourself of your proud self, and to experience
iu yourself the wonderful change, you would live in
praise and thanksgiving, instead of argument and criti-
cism.” Charles was touched by his warmth; “ But,”120

LOSS AND GAIN.

he said, “ we ought to act by reason ; and I don’t see
that I have more, or so much, reason to listen to you, as
to listen to the Roman Catholic, who tells me I cannot
possibly have that certainty of faith before believing,
which on believing will be divinely given me.” “ Surely,”
said Freeborn, with a grave face, “you would not compare
the spiritual Christian, such as Luther, holding his car-
dinal doctrine about justification, to any such formal,
legal, superstitious devotee as Popery can make, with its
carnal rites and quack remedies, which never really
cleanse the soul or reconcile it to God ? ” “I don’t like
you to talk so,” said Reding; “ I know very little about
the real nature of Popery; but when I was a boy, I was
once, by chance, in a Roman Catholic chapel; and I
really never saw such devotion in my life—the people
all on their knees, and most earnestly attentive to what
was going on. I did not understand what that was;
but I am sure, had you been there, you never would have
called their religion, be it right or wrong, an outward
form or carnal ordinance.” Freeborn said it deeply
pained him to hear such sentiments, and to find that
Charles was so tainted with the errors of the day; and
he began, not with much tact, to talk of the Papal
Antichrist, and would have got off to prophecy, had
Charles said a word to afford fuel for discussion. As
he kept silence, Freeborn’s zeal burnt out, and there was
a break in the conversation.

After a time, Reding ventured to begin again. “ If
I understand you,” he said, “ faith carries its own evi-
dence with it. Just as I eat my bread at breakfast
without hesitation about its wholesomeness, so, when I
have really faith, I know it beyond mistake, and need
not look out for tests of it?” “Precisely so,” saidLOSS AND GAIN.

121

Freeborn; “ you begin to see what I mean; you grow.
The soul is enlightened to see that it has real faith.”
“ But how,” asked Charles, “are we to rescue those
from their dangerous mistake, who think they have faith,
while they have not ? Is there no way in which they
can find out that they are under a delusion ?”	“ It is

not wonderful,” said Freeborn, “though there be no
way. There are many self-deceivers in the world.
Some men are self-righteous, trust in their works, and
think they are safe when they are in a state of perdition;
no formal rules can be given by which their reason might
for certain detect their mistake. And so of false faith.”
“Well, it does seem to me wonderful,” said Charles, “that
there is no natural and obvious warning provided against
this delusion; wonderful that false faith should be so ex-
actly like true faith that the event alone determines their
differences from each other. Effects imply causes: if one
apprehension of Christ leads to good works, and another
does not, there must be something in the one which is
not in the other. What is a false apprehension of
Christ wanting in, which a true apprehension has ?
The word apprehension is so vague; it conveys no de-
finite idea to me, yet justification depends on it. Is it,
for instance, wanting in repentance and amendment?”
“ No, no,” said Freeborn; “ true faith is complete with-
out conversion; conversion follows; but faith is the
root.” “ Is it the love of God which distinguishes true
faith from false?” “Love?” answered Freeborn;
“ you should read what Luther says in his celebrated
comment on the Galatians. He calls such a doctrine
‘pestilensfigmentum,’ ‘ diaboliportentumand cries out
against the Papists, ‘ Pereant sophistce cum sud male-
dictd glossd! ’ ”	“ Then it differs from false faith in122

LOSS AND GAIN.

nothing.” “ Not so,” said Freeborn ; “ it differs from
it in its fruits : ‘ By their fruits ye shall know them.’ ”
“ This is coming round to the same point again,” said
Charles ; “ fruits come after; but a man, it seems, is to
take comfort in his justification before fruits come, before
he knows that his faith will produce them.” “ Good
works are the necessary fruits of faith,” said Freeborn ;
“ so says the Article.” Charles made no answer, but
said to himself, “ My good friend here certainly has not
the clearest of heads ;” then aloud, “ "Well, I despair of
getting at the bottom of the subject.” “ Of course,”
answered Freeborn, with an air of superiority, though
in a mild tone, “ it is a very simple principle, ‘ Fides
justificat ante et sine charitate hut it requires a divine
light to embrace it.” They walked awhile in silence ;
then, as the day was now closing in, they turned home-
wards, and parted company when they came to the
Clarendon.

CHAPTER XVII.

Feeebohn was not the person to let go a young man
like Charles without another effort to gain him; and in
a few days he invited him to take tea at his lodgings.
Charles went at the appointed time, through the wet
and cold of a dreary November evening, and found five
or six men already assembled. He had got into another
world; faces, manners, speeches, all were strange, and
savoured neither of Eton, which was his own school, nor
of Oxford itself. He was introduced, and found the
awkwardness of a new acquaintance little relieved by the
conversation which went on. It was a dropping fire ofLOSS AND GAIN.

123

serious remarks; with pauses, relieved only by occasional
“ahems,” the sipping of tea, the sound of spoons falling
against the saucers, and the blind shifting of chairs as
the flurried servant-maid of the lodgings suddenly came
upon them from behind, with the kettle for the teapot,
or toast for the table. There was no nature or elasticity
in the party, but a great intention to be profitable.

“ Have you Been the last ‘ Spiritual Journal ?’ ” asked
No. 1 of No. 2 in a low voice. No. 2 had just read it.
“A very remarkable article that,” said No. 1, “upon
the death-bed of the Pope.” “ No one is beyond hope,”
answered No. 2.	“ I have heard of it, but not seen it,”

said No. 3. A pause. “What is it about?” asked
Reding. “ The late Pope Sixtus the Sixteenth,” said
No. 3; “he seems to have died a believer.” A sen-
sation. Charles looked as if he wished to know more.
“ The ‘ Journal ’ gives it on excellent authority,” said
No. 2; “ Mr. O’Niggins, the agent for the Roman
Priest Conversion Branch Tract Society, was in Rome
during his last illness. He solicited an audience with
the Pope, which was granted to him. He at once began
to address him on the necessity of a change of heart,
belief in the one Hope of sinners, and abandonment of
all creature mediators. He announced to him the glad
tidings, and assured him there was pardon for all. He
warned him against the figment of baptismal regenera-
tion ; and then, proceeding to apply the word, he urged
him, though in the eleventh hour, to receive the Bible,
the whole Bible, and nothing but the Bible. The Pope
listened with marked attention, and displayed consider-
able emotion. When it was ended, he answered Mr.
O’Niggins, that it was his fervent hope that they two
would not die without finding themselves in one commu-124

LOSS AND GAIN.

nion, or something of the sort. He declared moreover,
what was astonishing, that he put his sole trust in
Christ, ‘ the source of all merit,’ as he expressed it—a
remarkable phrase.” “ In what language was the con-
versation carried on?” asked Reding. “It is not
stated,” answered No. 2; “but I am pretty sure Mr.
O’Niggins is a good French scholar.” “ It does not
seem to me,” said Charles, “ that the Pope’s admissions
are greater than those made continually by certain mem-
bers of our own Church, who are nevertheless accused of
Popery.” “ But they are extorted from such persons,”
said Freeborn, “ while the Pope’s were voluntary.”
“The one party go back into darkness,” said No. 3 ;
“ the Pope was coming forward into light.” “ One
ought to interpret every thing for the best in a real Pa-
pist,” said Freeborn, “ and every thing for the worst in
a Puseyite. That is both charity and common sense.”
“This was not all,” continued No.2 ; “he called toge-
ther the Cardinals, protested that he earnestly desired
God’s glory, said that inward religion was all in all, and
forms nothing without a contrite heart, and that he
trusted soon to be in Paradise—which, you know, was
a denial of the doctrine of Purgatory.” “ A brand from
the burning, I do hope,” said No. 3. “ It has frequently
been observed,” said No. 4, “ nay it has struck me my-
self, that the way to convert Romanists is first to con-
vert the Pope.” “ It is a sure way, at least,” said
Charles timidly, afraid he was saying too much ; but his
irony was not discovered. “ Man cannot do it,” said
Freeborn; “ it’s the power of faith. Faith can be
vouchsafed even to the greatest sinners. Tou see now,
perhaps,” he said, turning to Charles, “ better than you
did, what I meant by faith the other day. This poorLOSS AND GAIN.

125

old man could have no merit; he had passed a long
life in opposing the Cross. Do your difficulties con-
tinue?”

Charles had thought over their former conversation
very carefully several times, and he answered, “ Why,
I don’t think they do to the same extent.” Freeborn
looked pleased. “ I mean,” he said, “ that the idea
hangs together better than I thought it did at first.”
Freeborn looked puzzled. Charles, slightly colouring,
was obliged to proceed, amid the profound silence of the
whole party. “You said, you know, that justifying
faith was without love or any other grace besides itself,
and that no one could at all tell what it was, except
afterwards, from its fruits; that there was no test by
which a person could examine himself, whether or not
he was deceiving himself when he thought he had faith,
so that good and bad might equally be taking to them-
selves the promises and the privileges peculiar to the
gospel. I thought this a hard doctrine certainly at first;
hut then afterwards it struck me, tfiat faith is perhaps a
result of a previous state of mind, a blessed result of a
blessed state, and therefore may be considered the re-
ward of previous obedience; and sham faith, or what
merely looks likes faith, a judicial punishment.” In pro-
portion as the drift of the former part of this speech
was uncertain, so was the conclusion very distinct.
There was no mistake, and an audible emotion. “ There
is no such thing as previous merit,” said No. 1; “ all is
of grace.” “ Not merit, I know,” said Charles, “ but ”
—“We must not bring in the doctrine of de condigno
or decongruo,” said No. 2. But surely,” said Charles,
“ it is a cruel thing to say to the unlearned and the mul-
titude, ‘ Believe, and you are at once saved; do not126

LOSS AND GAIN.

wait for fruits, rejoice at once,’ and neither to accom-
pany this announcement by any clear description of
what faith is, nor to secure them by previous religious
training against self-deception ?”	“ That is the very

gloriousness of the doctrine,” said Freeborn, “ that it is
preached to the worst of mankind. It says, ‘ Come as
you are ; don’t attempt to make yourselves better. Be-
lieve that salvation is yours, and it is yours: good works
follow after.’ ” “ On the contrary,” said Charles, con-
tinuing his argument, “ when it is said that justification
follows upon baptism, we have an intelligible something
pointed out, which everyone can ascertain. Baptism is
an external unequivocal token; whereas that a man has
this secret feeling called faith, no one but himself can be
a witness, and he is not an unbiassed one.”

Reding had at length succeeded in throwing that dull
tea-table into a state of great excitement. “ My dear
friend,” said Freeborn, “I had hoped better things ; in
a little while, I hope, you will see things differently.
Baptism is an outward rite ; what is there, can there be,
spiritual, holy, or heavenly in baptism ?”	“ But you

tell me faith too is not spiritual,” said Charles. “ I tell
you !” cried Freeborn, “ when r” “ Well,” said Charles,
somewhat puzzled, “ at least you do not think it holy.”
Freeborn was puzzled in his turn. “ If it is holy,” con-
tinued Charles, “ it has something good in it; it has
some worth; it is not filthy rags. All the good comes
afterwards, you said. You said that its fruits were holy,
but that it was nothing at all itself.” There was a
momentary silence, and some agitation of thought.
“ Oh, faith is certainly a holy feeling,” said No. 1. “No^
it is spiritual, but not holy,” said No. 2 ; “ it is a mere
act, the apprehension of Christ’s merits.” “ It is seatedLOSS AND GAIN.

127

in the affections,” said No. 3 ; “ faith is a feeling of the
heart; it is trust, it is a belief that Christ is my Saviour ;
all this is distinct from holiness. Holiness introduces
self-righteousness. Faith is peace and joy, but it is
not holiness. Holiness comes after.” “ Nothing can
cause holiness but what is holy; this is a sort of axiom,”
said Charles; “ if the fruits are holy, faith, which is
the root, is holy.” “ You might as well say that the
root of a rose is red, and of a lily, white,” said No. 3.
“ Pardon me,” said Freeborn, “ it is, as my friend says,
an apprehension. An apprehension is a seizing; there
is no more holiness in justifying faith, than in the hand’s
seizing a substance which comes in its way. This is
Luther’s great doctrine in his ‘ Commentary ’ on the Ga-
latians. It is nothing in itself—it is a mere instrument;
this is what he teaches, when he so vehemently resists
the notion of justifying faith being accompaniedby love.”
“I cannot assent to that doctrine,” said No. 1; “it
may be true in a certain sense, but it throws stumbling-
blocks in the way of seekers. Luther could not have
meant what you say, I am convinced. Justifying faitli
is always accompanied by love.” “That is what I
thought,” said Charles. “ That is the Romish doctrine
all over,” said No. 2 ; “it is the doctrine of Bull and
Taylor.” “ Luther calls it ‘ venenum infernale,’ ” said
Freeborn. “ It is just what the Puseyites preach at
present,” said No. 3.	“ On the contrary,” said No.

1, “ it is the doctrine of Melancthon. Look here,” he
continued, taking his pocket-book out of his pocket, “ I
have got his words down, as Shuffleton quoted them in
the Divinity-school the other day. ‘Fides significatJidu-
ciam ; in Jiducia inest dilectio; ergo etiam dilectione su-
musjusti.” Three of the party cried “ Impossible;” the128

LOSS AND GAIN.

paper was handed round in solemn silence. “ Calvin
said the same,” said No. 1, triumphantly.

“I think,” said No. 4,in a slow, smooth, sustained
voice, which contrasted with the animation which had
suddenly inspired the conversation, “ that the con-tro-
ver-sy, ahem, may be easily arranged. It is a question
of words between Luther and Melancthon. Luther
says, ahem, * faith is without love,’ meaning, ‘ faith with-
out love justifies.’ Melancthon, on the other hand,
says, ahem, ‘faith is with love,’ meaning, ‘faith justifies
with love.’ Now both are true: for, ahem, faith-with-
out-love justifies, yet faith justifies not-without-hve.”
There was a pause, while both parties digested this
explanation. “ On the contrary,” he added, “ it is the
Komish doctrine that faith-with-love justifies.” Free-
born expressed his dissent; he thought this the doctrine
of Melancthon which Luther condemned. “ You
mean,” said Charles, “ that justification is given to faith
with love, not to faith and love.” “ You have ex-
pressed my meaning,” said No. 4.	“ And what is con-

sidered the difference between with and and?" asked
Charles. No. 4 replied without hesitation, “ Faith is the
instrument, love the sine qua non'' Nos. 2 and 3 inter-
posed with a protest; they thoughtit “legal” to introduce
the phrase sine qua non ; it was introducing conditions.
Justification was unconditional. “But is not faith a
condition ?” asked Charles. “Certainly not,” said Free-
born ; “ ‘ condition ’ is a legal word. How can salva-
tion be free and full, if it is conditional ?” “ There are
no conditions,” said No. 3 ; “all must come from the
heart. We believe with the heart, we love from the
heart, we obey with the heart; not because we are
obliged, but because we have a new nature.” “ Is thereLOSS AND GAIN.

129

no obligation to obey ?” said Charles, surprised. “No
obligation to the regenerate,” answered No. 3; “they are
above obligation; they are in a new state.” “But
surely Christians are under a law,” said Charles.
“ Certainly not,” said No. 2 ; “ the law is done away in
Christ.” “Take care,” said No. 1; “thatborders on
Antinomianism.” “ Not at all,” said Freeborn; “an
Antinomian actually holds that he may break the law ;
a spiritual believer only holds that he is not bound to
keep it.”	<

Now they got into a fresh discussion among them-
selves ; and as it seemed as interminable as it was unin-
teresting, Reding took an opportunity to wish his host a
good night, and to slip away. He never had much lean-
ing towards the evangelical doctrine; and Freeborn and
his friends, who knew what they were holding much
better than the run of their party, satisfied him that he
had not much to gain by inquiring into that doctrine fur-
ther. So they will vanish in consequence from our pages.

CHAPTER XVIII.

When Charles got to his room, he saw a letter from
home lying on his table: and, to his alarm, it had a deep
black edge. He tore it open. Alas, it announced the
sudden death of his dear father. He had been ailing
some weeks with the gout, which at length had attacked
his stomach, and carried him off in a few hours.

O my poor dear Charles, I sympathise with you
keenly all that long night, and that indescribable waking
in the morning, and that dreary day of travel which
followed it! By the afternoon you were at home. 0
piercing change! it was but six or seven weeks before,130

LOSS AND GATN.

that you had passed the same objects the reverse way,
with what different feelings, and oh, in what company,
as you made for the railway omnibus ! It was a grief
not to be put into words ; and to meet mother, sisters,
and the Dead!	.	.	.	.

The funeral is over by some days; Charles is to re-
main at home the remainder of the term, and does not
return to Oxford till towards the end of January. The
signs of grief have been put away ; the house looks
cheerful as before ; the fire as bright, the mirrors as soft,
the furniture as orderly; the pictures are the same, and
the ornaments on the mantel-piece stand as they have
stood, and the French clock tells the hour, as it has told
it, for years past. The inmates of the parsonage wear,
it is most true, the signs of a heavy bereavement; but
they converse as usual, and on ordinary subjects; they
pursue the same employments, they work, they read,they
walk in the garden, they dine. There is no change ex-
cept in the inward consciousness of an overwhelming
loss. He is not there, not merely on this day or that,
for so it well might be ; he is not merely away, but, as
tbey know well, he is gone and will not return. That
he is absent now, is but a token and a memorial to
their minds that he will be absent always. But espe-
cially at dinner ; Charles had to take a place which he
had sometimes filled, but then as the deputy, and in the
presence, of him whom now he succeeded. His father,
being not much more than a middle-aged man, had been
accustomed to carve himself. And when at the meal of
the day Charles looked up, he had to encounter the
troubled look of one, who, from her place at table, had
before her eyes a still more vivid memento of their
common loss ;—aliquid desideraverunt oculi.LOSS AND GAIN.

131

Mr. Reding had left his family well provided for; and
this, though a real alleviation of their loss in the event,
perhaps augmented the pain of it at the moment. He
had ever been a kind indulgent father. He was a most
respectable clergyman of the old school; pious in his
sentiments, a gentleman in his feelings, exemplary in his
social relations. He was no reader, and never had been
in the way to gain theological knowledge; he sincerely
believed all that was in the Prayer-book, but his sermons
were very rarely doctrinal. They were sensible, manly
discourses on the moral duties. He administered holy
communion at the three great festivals, saw his Bishop
once or twice a year, was on good terms with the country
gentlemen in his neighbourhood, was charitable to the
poor, hospitable in his housekeeping, and was a staunch
though not a violent supporter of the Tory interest in
his county. He was incapable of any thing harsh, or
petty, or low, or uncourteous; and died esteemed by the
great houses about him, and lamented by his parishioners.

It was the first great grief poor Charles had ever had,
and he felt it to be real. How did the small anxieties
which had of late teased him, vanish before this tangible
calamity! He then understood the difference between
what was real and what was not. All the doubts, in-
quiries, surmises, views, which had of late haunted him
on theological subjects, seemed like so many shams, which
flitted before him in sunbright hours, brut had no root in
his inward nature, and fell from him, like the helpless
December leaves, in the hour of his affliction. He felt
now where his heart and his life lay. His birth, his
parentage, his education, his home, were great realities ;
to these his being was united; out of these he grew. He
felt he must be what Providence had made him. What132

LOSS AND GAIN.

is called the pursuit of truth, seemed an idle dream. He
had great tangible duties, to his father’s memory, to his
mother and sisters, to his position; he felt sick of all
theories, as if they had taken him in; and he secretly
resolved never more to have any thing to do with them.
Let the world go on as it might, happen what would to
others, his own place and his own path were clear. He
would go back to Oxford, attend steadily to his books,
put aside all distractions, avoid bye-paths,and do his best
to acquit himself well in the schools. The Church of
England as it was, its Articles, Bishops, preachers, pro-
fessors,had sufficed for much better persons than he was;
they were good enough for him. He could not do better
than imitate the life and death of his beloved father; a
quiet time in the country at a distance from all excite-
ments, a round of pious, useful work, among the poor,
the care of a village school, and at length the death of the
righteous.

At the moment, and for some time to come, he had
special duties towards.his mother; he wished, as far as
might be, to supply to her the place of him she had lost.
She had great trials before her still; if it was a grief to
nimself to leave Hartley, what would it be to her ? Not
many months would pass over, when she would have to
quit a place ever dear, and now sacred to her thoughts;
there was in store for her the anguish of dismantling the
home of many years, and the toil and whirl of packing;
a wearied head and an aching heart at a time when she
would have most need of self-possession and energy.

Such were the thoughts which came upon him again
and again in those sorrowful weeks. A leaf had been
turned over in his life; he could not be what he had
been. People come to man’s estate at very differentLOSS AND GAIN.

133

ages. Youngest sons in a family, like monks in a con-
vent, may remain children till they have reached middle
age ; but the elder, should their father die prematurely,
are suddenly ripened into manhood, when they are al-
most boys. Charles had left Oxford a clever, unformed
youth ; he returned a man.PART II.

CHAPTER I.

About four miles from Oxford, a thickly wooded village
lies oh the side of a steep long hill or chine, looking over
the Berkshire woods, and commanding a view of the
many-turreted city itself. Over its broad summit once
stretched a chestnut forest; and now it is covered with
the roots of trees, or furze, or soft turf. The red sand
which lies underneath contrasts with the green, and adds
to its brilliancy; it drinks in too the rain greedily, so that
the wide common is nearly always fit for walking; and
the air, unlike the heavy atmosphere of the University
beneath it, is fresh and bracing. The gorse was still in
bloom in the latter end of the month of June, when
Reding and Sheffield took up their abode in a small cot-
tage at the upper end of this village,—so hid with trees
and girt in with meadows, that for the stranger it was
hard to find,—there to pass their third and last Long
Vacation, before going into the schools.

A year and a half had passed since Charles’s great
affliction, and the time had not been unprofitably spent
either by himself or his friend. Both had read very
regularly, and Sheffield had gained the Latin verse into
the bargain. Charles had put all religious perplexities
aside; that is, he knew of course many more persons of
all parties than he did before, and became better ac-
quainted with their tenets and their characters; but heLOSS AND GAIN.

135

did not dwell upon any thing which he met with, nor
attempt to determine the merits or solve the difficulties
of this or that question. He took things as they came;
and, while he gave his mind to his books, he thankfully
availed himself of the religious privileges which the Col-
lege system afforded him. Nearly a year still remained
before his examination; and, as Mrs. Reding had not as
yet fully arranged her plans, but was still with her daugh-
ters, passing from friend to friend, he had listened to
Sheffield’s proposal to take a tutor for the Vacation,
and to find a site for their studies in the neighbour-
hood of Oxford. There was every prospect of their both
obtaining the highest honours which the schodis award :
they both were good scholars and clever men; they
had read regularly, and had had the advantage of able
lectures.

The side of the hill forms a large sweeping hollow or
theatre just on one side of the village of Horsley. The
two extreme points may be half a mile across ; but the
distance is increased to one who follows the path which
winds through the furze and fern along the ridge. Their
tutor had been unable to find lodgings in the village;
and, while the two young men lived on one extremity
of the sweep we have been describing, Mr. Carlton, who
was not above three years older than they, had planted
himself at a farm-house upon the other. Besides, the
farm-house suited him better, as being nearer to a
hamlet which he was serving during the Vacation.

“ I don’t think you like Carlton as well as I do,”
said Reding to Sheffield, as they lay on the greensward
with some lighter classic in their hands, waiting for din-
ner, and watching their friend as he approached them
from his lodging. “ He is to me so taking a man; so136

LOSS AND GAIN.

equable, so gentle, so considerate—he brings people to-
gether, and fills them with confidence in himself, and
friendly feeling towards each other, more than any person
I know.” “You are wrong,” said Sheffield, “ if you
think I don’t value him extremely, and love him too ;
it’s impossible not to love him. But he’s not the person
quite to get influence over me.” “ He’s too much of an
Anglican for you,” said Reding. “Not at all,” said
Sheffield, “ except indirectly. My quarrel with him is,
that he has many original thoughts, and holds many
profound truths in detail, but is quite unable to see how
they lie to each other, and equally unable to draw con-
sequences. He never sees a truth until he touches it;
he is ever groping and feeling, and, as in hide-and-seek,
continually burns without discovering. I know there
are ten thousand persons who cannot see an inch before
their nose, and who can comfortably digest contradic-
tions ; but Carlton is really a clever man ; he is no com-
mon thinker; this makes it so provoking. When I
write an essay for him,—I know I write obscurely, and
often do not bring out the sequence of my ideas in due
order,—but, so it is, he is sure to cut out the very
thought or statement on which I especially pride myself,
on which the whole argument rests, which binds every
part together ; and he coolly tells me that it is extrava-
gant or far-fetched—not seeing that by leaving it out he
has made nonsense of the rest. He is a man to rob an
arch of its key-stone, and then quietly to build his house
upon it.” “Ah, your old failing again,” said Reding;
“ a craving after views. Now, what I like in Carlton,
is that repose of his ;—always saying enough, never too
much; never boring you, never taxing you ; always
practical, never in the clouds. Save me from a viewyLOSS AND GAIN.

137

man; I could not live with him for a week, present
company always excepted.” “ Now, considering how
hard I have read, and how little I have talked this year
past, that is hard on me,” said Sheffield. “ Did not I
go to be one of old Thruston’s sixteen pupils, last Long ?
He gave us capital feeds, smoked with us, and coached
us in Ethics and the Agamemnon. He knows his books
by heart, can repeat his plays backwards, and weighs
out his Aristotle by grains and pennyweights: but, for
generalisations, ideas, poetry, oh, it was desolation—it
was a darkness which could be felt.” “And you stayed
there just six weeks out of four months, Sheffield,” an-
swered Eeding.

Carlton had now joined them, and, after introductory
greetings on both sides, he too threw himself upon the
turf. Sheffield said: “Eeding and I were disputing
just now whether Nicias was a party man.” “ Of
course you first defined your terms,” said Carlton.
“ Well,” said Sheffield, “ I mean by a party man, one
who not only belongs to a party, but who has the animus
of party. Nicias did not makea party,he found one made.
He found himself at the head of it; he was no more a
party man than a prince who was born the head of his
state.” “I should agree with you,” said Carlton; “butstill
I should like to know what a party is, and what a party
man.” “ A party,” said Sheffield, “ is merely an extra-
constitutional or extra-legal body.” “ Party action,”
said Charles, “is the exertion of influence instead of
law.” “ But supposing, Eeding, there is no law existing
in the quarter where influence exerts itself?” asked
Carlton. Charles had to explain: “ Certainly,” he said,
“ the State did not legislate for all possible contingencies.”
“ For instance,” continued Carlton, “ a prime minister,138

LOSS AND GAIN.

I Lave understood, is not acknowledged in the constitu-
tion ; he exerts influence beyond the law, but not, in
consequence, against any existing law; and it would be
absurd to talk of him as a party man.” “ Parliamentary
parties, too, are recognised among us,” said Sheffield,
“though extra-constitutional. We call them parties ;
but who would call the Duke of Devonshire or Lord John
Bussell, in a bad sense, a party man ?” “It seems to
me,” said CarltoD, “ that the formation of a party is
merely a recurrence to the original mode of forming into
society. You recollect Deioces; he formed a party. He
gained influence; he laid the foundation of social order.”
“Law certainly begins in influence,” saidKeding, “for
it presupposes a lawgiver; afterwards it supersedes in-
fluence ; from that time the exertion of influence is a
sign of party.” “ Too broadly said, as you yourself .just
now allowed,” said Carlton : “you should say that law
begins to supersede influence, and that in proportion as
it supersedes it, does the exertion of influence involve
party action. For instance, has not the crown an im-
mense personal influence ? we talk of the Court party;
yet it does not interfere with law, it is intended to con-
ciliate the people to the law.” “ But it is recognised
by law and constitution,” said Charles, “as was the
Dictatorship.” “ Well, then, take the influence of the
clergy,” answered Carlton; “ we make much of that
influence as a principle supplemental to the law, and as a
support to the law, yet not created or defined by the
law. The law does not recognise what some one calls
truly a ‘ resident gentleman ’ in every parish. Influence,
then, instead of law is not necessarily the action of party.”
“ So again, national character is an influence distinct
from the law,” said Sheffield, “ according to the line,—LOSS AND GAIN.

139

1 Quid leges sine moribus ?* ” “Law,” said Carlton,
“ is but gradually formed and extended. "Well, then,
so far as there is no law, there is the reign of influence;
there is party without of necessity party action. This
is the justification of Whigs and Tories at the present
day; to supply, as Aristotle says on another subject, the
defects.of the law. Charles the First exerted a regal,
Walpole a ministerial influence ; but influence, not law,
was the operating principle in both cases. The object
or the means might be wrong, but the process could not
be called party action.” “ You would justify, then,”
said Charles, “ the associations or confraternities which
existed, for instance, in Athens; not, that is, if they
‘ took the law into their own hands,’ as the phrase goes,
but if there was no law to take, or if there was no con-
stituted authority to take it. It was a recurrence to the
precedent of Deioces.” “ Manzoni gives a striking in-
stance of this, in the beginning of his JPromessi Sposi,”
said Sheffield, “ when he speaks of the protection which
law ought to give to the weak, as being in the sixteenth
century sought and found almost exclusively in factions
or companies. I don’1< recollect particulars, but he
describes the clergy as busy in extending their im-
munities, the nobility their privileges, the army their
exemptions, the trades and artizans their guilds. Even
the lawyers formed a union, and medical men a cor-
poration.”

“ Thus constitutions are gradually moulded and per-
fected,” said Carlton, “by extra-constitutional bodies,
either coming under the protection of law, or else being
superseded by the law’s providing for their objects. In
the middle ages the Church was a vast extra-constitu-
tional body. The German and Anglo-Norman sovereigns140

LOSS AND GAIN.

wished to bring its operation under the law; modern
parliaments have superseded its operation by law. Then
the State wished to gain the right of investitures ; now
the State marries, registers, manages the poor, exer-
cises ecclesiastical jurisdiction, instead of the Church.”
“ This will make ostracism parallel to the Reformation
or the Revolution,” said Sheffield; “ there is a battle of
influence against influence, and one gets rid of the other;
law or constitution does not come into question, but the
will of the people or of the court ejects, whether the too-
gifted individual, or the monarch, or the religion. What
was not under the law could not be dealt with, had no
claim to be dealt with, by the law.” “A thought has
sometimes struck me,” said Charles, “ which falls in
with what you have been saying. In the last half-
century there has been a gradual formation of the popular
party in the State, which now tends to be acknowledged
as constitutional, or is already so acknowledged. My
father never could endure newspapers—I mean, the sys-
tem of newspapers ; he said it was a new power in the
State. I am sure I am not defending what he was
thinking of, the many bad things, the wretched princi-
ples, the arrogance and tyranny of newspaper-writers,
but I am trying the subject by the test of your theory.
The great body of the people are very imperfectly repre-
sented in parliament; the Commons are not their voice,
but the voice of certain great interests. Consequently
the press comes in, to do that which the constitution
does not do, to form the people into a vast mutual-pro-
tection association. And this is done by the same right
that Deioces had to collect people about him ; it does
not interfere with the existing territory of the law, but
builds where the constitution has not made provision.LOSS AND GAIN.

141

It tends, then, ultimately to be recognised by the
constitution.”

“ There is another remarkable phenomenon of a si-
milar kind now in process of development,” said Carlton,
“ and that is, the influence of agitation. I really am not
politician enough to talk of it as good or bad; one’s
natural instinct is against it; but it may be necessary.
However, agitation is getting to be recognised as the
legitimate instrument by which the masses make their
desires known, and secure the accomplishment of them.
Just as a bill passes in parliament, after certain read-
ings, discussions, speeches, votings, and the like; so the
process by which an act of the popular will becomes law,
is a long agitation, issuing in petitions, previous to and
current with the parliamentary process. The first in-
stance of this was about fifty or sixty years ago, when
.	.	. Hallo !” he cried, “ who is this cantering up

to us ?” “I declare it is old Vincent,” said Sheffield.
“He is come to dine,” said Charles ; “just in time.”
“How are you, Carlton?” cried Vincent; “how d’ye
do, Mr. Sheffield ? Mr. Reding, how d’ye do ? acting
up to your name, I suppose, for you were ever a reading
man. For myself,” he continued, “ I am just now an
eating man, and am come to dine with you, if you will
let me. Have you a place for my horse ?” There was
a farmer near, who could lend a stable; so the horse
was led off by Charles; and the rider, without any
delay—for the hour did not admit it—entered the cot-
tage to make his brief preparation for dinner.142

LOSS AND GAIN.

CHAPTER II.

In a few minutes all met together at table in the small
parlour, which was room of all work in the cottage. They
had not the whole house, limited as were its resources ;
for it was also the habitation of a gardener, who took his
vegetables to the Oxford market, and whose wife, what
is called, did for his lodgers.

Dinner was suited to the apartment, apartment to the
dinner. The book-table had been hastily cleared for a
cloth, not over white, and, in consequence, the sole re-
maining table, which acted as sideboard, displayed a
relay of plates and knives and forks, in the midst of
octavos and duodecimos, bound and unbound, piled up
and thrown about in great variety of shapes. The
other ornaments of this side-table were an ink-glass,
some quires of large paper, a straw hat, a gold watch, a
clothes-brush, some bottles of ginger-beer, a pair of
gloves, a case of cigars, a neck-handkerchief, a shoe-
horn, a small slate, a large clasp-knife, a hammer, and
a handsome inlaid writing-desk.

“ I like these rides into the country,” said Yincent, as
they began eating; “ the country loses its effect on me
when I live in it, as you do; but it is exquisite as a
zest. Yisit it, do not live in it, if you would enjoy it.
Country air is a stimulus ; stimulants, Mr. Reding,
should not be taken too often. You are of the country
party. I am of no party. I go here and there, like the
bee; I taste of every thing, I depend on nothing.”
Sheffield said, that this was rather belonging to all
parties, than to none. “ That is impossible,” answered
Yincent; “ I hold it to be altogether impossible. You
can’t belong to two parties; there’s no fear of it; youLOSS AND GAIN.

143

might as well attempt to be in two places at once. To
be connected with both is to be united with neither.
Depend on it, my young friend, antagonist principles
correct each other. It’s a piece of philosophy which
one day you will thank me for, when you are older.”
“ I have heard of an American illustration of this,” said
Sheffield, “ which certainly confirms what you say, sir.
Professors in the United States are sometimes of two or
three religions at once, according as we regard them
historically, personally, or officially. In this way, per-
haps, they hit the mean.” Yincent, though he so often
excited a smile in others, had no humour himself; and
never could make out the difference between irony and
earnest. Accordingly he was brought to a stand.
Charles came to his relief. “Before dinner,” he said,
“ we were sporting what you will consider a great para-
dox, I am afraid; that parties were good things, or
rather necessary things.” “ You don’t do me justice,”
answered Yincent, “ if this is what you think I mean.
I halve your words; parties are not good, but necessary;
like snails, I don’t envy them their small houses, or try
to lodge in them.” “You mean,” said Carlton, “that
parties do our dirty work; they are our beasts of burden;
we could not get on without them, but we need not
identify ourselves with them; we may keep aloof.”
“That,” said Sheffield, “is something like those re-
ligious professors who say that it is sinful to engage in
worldly though necessary occupations; but that the re-
probate undertake them, and work for the elect.” “There
will always be persons enough in the world who like to
be party men, without being told to be so,” said Vin-
cent ; “ it’s our business to turn them to account, to use
them, but to keep aloof. I take it, all parties are partly144

LOSS AND GAIN.

right, only they go too far. I borrow from each, I co-
operate with each, as far as each is right, and no fur-
ther. Thus I get good from all, and I do good to all;
for I countenance each, so far as it is true.”

“ Mr. Carlton meant more than that, sir,” said Shef-
field ; “ he meant that the existence of parties was not
only necessary and useful, but even right.” “Mr.
Carlton is not the man to make paradoxes,” said Vincent;
“ I suspect he would not defend the extreme opinions,
which, alas, exist among us at present, and are progress-
ing every day.” “ I was speaking of political parties,”
said Carlton, “ but I am disposed to extend what I said
to religious also.” “ But, my good Carlton,” said Vin-
cent, “ Scripture speaks against religious parties.”
“ Certainly I don’t wish to oppose Scripture,” said
Carlton, “ and I speak under correction of Scripture;
but I say this, that whenever and wherever a Church
does not decide religious points, so far does it leave the
decision to individuals ; and, since you can’t expect all
people to agree together, you must have different opi-
nions ; and the expression of those different opinions, by
the various persons who hold them, is what is called a
party.” “ Mr. Carlton has been great, sir, on the general
subject before dinner,” said Sheffield, “ and now he
draws the corollary, that whenever there are parties in a
Church, a Church may thank itself for them. They are
the certain effect of private judgment; and the more pri-
vate judgment you have, the more parties you will have.
You are reduced, then, to this alternative, no toleration
or party; and you must recognise party, unless you re-
fuse toleration.” “ Sheffield words it more Btrongly than
I should do,” said Carlton; “but really I mean pretty
much what he says. Take the case of the Roman Ca-LOSS AND GAIN.

145

tholics; they have decided many points of theology,
many they have not decided; and wherever there is no
ecclesiastical decision, there they have at once a party;
and when the ecclesiastical decision at length appears,
then the party ceases. Thus you have the Dominicans
and Franciscans contending about the Immaculate Con-
ception ; they went on contending because authority did
not at once decide the question. On the other hand,
when Jesuits and Jansenists disputed on the question of
grace, the Pope gave it in favour of the Jesuits, and the
controversy at once came to an end.” “ Surely,” said
Vincent, “ my good and worthy friend, the Eev. Charles
Carlton, Fellow of Leicester, and sometime Ireland Es-
sayist, is npt preferring the Church of Rome to the
Church of England.” Carlton laughed; “ You won’t
suspect me of that, I think,” he answered; “ no ; all I
say is, that our Church, from its constitution, admits,
approves of private judgment; and that private judg-
ment, so far forth as it is admitted, necessarily involves
parties; the slender private judgment allowed in the
Church of Rome admitting occasional or local parties,
and the ample private judgment allowed in our Church
recognising parties as an element of the Church.”
“ Well, well, my good Carlton,” said Vincent, frowning
and looking wise,yet without finding any thing particular
to say. “ You mean,” said Sheffield, “ if I understand
you, that it is a piece of mawkish hypocrisy to shake the
head and throw up the eyes at Mr. this or that for being
the head of a religious party, while we return thanks for
our pure and reformed Church; because purity, refor-
mation, apostolicity, toleration, all these boasts and
glories of the Church of England, establish party action
and party spirit as a cognate blessing, for which we should146

LOSS AND GAIN.

be thankful also. Party is one of our greatest orna-
ments, Mr. Vincent.” “ A sentiment or argument does
not lose in your hands,” said Carlton; “but what I meant
was simply that party leaders are not dishonourable in
the Church, unless Lord John Russell or Sir Robert Peel
hold a dishonourable post in the State.” “ My young
friend,” said Vincent, finishing his mutton, and pushing
his plate from him, “my two young friends,—for
Carlton is not much older than Mr. Sheffield,—may you
learn a little more judgment. When you have lived
to my age” (viz. two or three years beyond Carlton’s),
“ you will learn sobriety in all things. Mr. Reding,
another glass of wine. See that poor child, how she
totters under the gooseberry-pudding; up, Mr. Sheffield,
and help her. The old woman cooks better than I had
expected. How do you get your butcher’s meat here,
Carlton ? I should have made the attempt to bring you
a fine jack I saw in our kitchen, but I thought you would
have no means of cooking it.”

Dinner over, the party rose, and strolled out on the
green. Another subject commenced. “Was not Mr.
Willis of St. George’s a friend of yours, Mr. Reding ?”
asked Vincent. Charles started; “ I knew him a little
... I have seen him several times.” “You know
he left us,” continued Vincent, “ and joined the Church
of Rome. Well, it is credibly reported that he is return-
ing.” “A melancholy history, anyhow,” answered
Charles; “most melancholy, if this is true.” “Ra-
ther,” said Vincent, setting him right, as if he had
simply made a verbal mistake, “ a most happy termina-
tion, you mean; the only thing that was left for him to
do. You know he went abroad. Any one who is in-
clined t<J Romanise should go abroad; Carlton, we shallLOSS AND GAIN.

147

be sending you soon. Here things are softened down;
there you see the Church of Home as it really is. I have
been abroad, and should know it. Such heaps of beg-
gars in the streets of Rome and Naples; so much
squalidness and misery; no cleanliness; an utter ab-
sence of comfort; and such superstition; and such an
abuse of all true and evangelical seriousness. They
push and fight while Mass is going on; they jabber
their prayers at railroad speed; they worship the Vir-
gin as a goddess; and they see miracles at the corner
of every street. Their images are awful, and their ig-
norance prodigious. "Well, Willis saw all this; and I
have it on good authority,” he said mysteriously, “ that
he is thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair, and is
coming back to us.” “ Is he in England now ? ” asked
Charles. “ He is said to be with his mother in Devon-
shire, who, perhaps you know, is a widow; and he has
been too much for her. Poor silly fellow, who would not
take tho advice of older heads! A friend once sent him
to me; I could make nothing of him. I couldn’t under-
stand his arguments, nor he mine. It was no good; he
would make trial himself, and he has caught it.”

There was a short pause in the conversation; then
Vincent added, “ But such perversions, Carlton, I sup-
pose, thinks to be as necessary as parties in a pure Pro-
testant Church.” “I can’t say you satisfy me, Carlton,”
said CharleB; “ and I am happy to have the sanction
of Mr. Vincent. Did political party make men rebels,
then would political party be indefensible; so is religious,
if it leads to apostasy.” “ You know the Whigs were
accused in the last war,” said Sheffield, “ of siding with
Bonaparte; accidents of this kind don’t affect general
rules or standing customs.” “ Well, independent of148

LOSS AND GAIN.

this,” answered Charles, “I cannot think religious parties
defensible on the considerations which justify political.
There is, to my feelings, something despicable in head-
ing a religious party.” “ Was Loyola despicable,” asked
Sheffield, “ or St. Dominic ?”	“ They had the sanction

of their superiors,” said Charles. “ You are hard on
parties surely, Keding,” said Carlton; “ a man may in-
dividually write, preach, and publish what he believes to
be the truth, without offence; why, then, does it begin
- to be wrong, when he does so together with others?”
“ Party tactics are a degradation of the truth,” said
Charles. “We have heard, I believe, before now,”
said Carlton, “ of Athanasius against the whole world,
and the whole world against Athanasius.” “Well,”
answered Charles, “ I will but say this, that a party
man must be very much above par or below it.” “ There,
again, I don’t agree,” said Carlton; “ you are supposing
the leader of a party to be conscious of what he is doing;
and, being conscious, he may be, as you say, either much
above or below the average: but a man need not realise
to himself that he is forming a party.” “ That’s more
difficult to conceive,” said Vincent, “than any state-
ment which has been hazarded this afternoon.” “ Not
at all difficult,” answered Carlton : “ do you mean that
there is only one way of gaining influence ? surely there
is such a thing as unconscious influence?” “ I’d as
easily believe,” said Vincent, “ that a beauty does not
know her charms.” “That’s narrow-minded,” retorted
Carlton: “a man sits in his room and writes, and does
not know what people think of him.” “ I’d believe it
less,” persisted Vincent; “beauty is a fact; influence
is an effect. Effects imply agents; agency, will and
consciousness.” “ There are different modes of in-LOSS AND GAIN.

149

fluence,” interposed Sheffield; “ influence is often spon-
taneous and almost necessary.” “ Like the light on
Moses’ face,” said Carlton. “Bonaparte is said to have
had an irresistible smile,” said Sheffield. “ What is
beauty itself, but a spontaneous influence ?” added Carl-
ton ; “ don’t you recollect ‘ the lovely young Lavinia,’
in Thomson?” “Well, gentlemen,” said Vincent,
“ when I am Chancellor, I will give a prize-essay on
‘ Moral Influence, its kinds and causes,’ and Mr. Shef-
field shall get it; and as to Carlton, he shall be my
Poetry Professor, when I am Convocation.”

You will say, good reader, that the party took a very
short Btroll on the hill, when we tell you that they were
now stooping their heads at the lowly door of the cot-
tage : but the terse “ littera scripta,” abridges won-
drously the rambling “ vox emissaand there might be
other things said in the course of the conversation,
which history has not condescended to record. Any-
how, we are obliged now to usher them again into the
room where they had dined^ and where they found tea
ready laid, and the kettle speedily forthcoming. The
bread and butter were excellent; and the party did jus-
tice to them, as if they had not lately dined. “ I see
you keep your tea in tin cases,” said Vincent; “ I am for
glass. Don’t spare the tea, Mr. Reding; Oxford men
do not commonly fail on that head. Lord Bacon says
the first and best juice of the grape, like the primary,
purest, and best comment on Scripture, is not pressed
and forced out, but consists of a natural exudation.
This is the case in Italy at this day ; and they call the
juice ‘ lagrima.’ So it is with tea, and with coffee too.
Put in a large quantity, pour on the water, turn off the15G

LOSS AND GAIN.

liquor; turn it off at once—don’t let it stand; it be-
comes poisonous. I am a great patron of tea; the poet
truly says, ‘ It cheers, but not inebriates.’ It has some-
times a singular effect upon my nerves ; it makes me
whistle—so people tell me; I am not conscious of it.
Sometimes, too, it has a dyspeptic effect. I find it does
not do to take it too hot; we English drink our liquors
too hot. It is not a French failing; no, indeed. In
France, that is in the country, you get nothing for break-
fast but acid wine and grapes; this is the other ex-
treme, and has before now affected me awfully. Yet
acids, too, have a soothing sedative effect upon one;
lemonade especially. But nothing suits me so well as
tea. Carlton,” he continued mysteriously, “ do you
know the late Dr. Baillie’s preventive of the flatulency
which tea produces ? Mr. Sheffield, do you ?” Both
gave up. “ Camomile flowers: a little camomile, not a
great deal; some people chew rhubarb, but a little ca-
momile in the tea is not perceptible. Don’t make faces,
Mr. Sheffield ; a little, I say ; a little of every thing is
best: ‘ ne quid nimis.’ Avoid all extremes. So it is
with sugar. Mr. Reding, you are putting too much in-
to your tea. I lay down this rule : sugar should not be a
substantive ingredient in tea, but an adjective ; that is,
tea has a natural roughness ; sugar is only intended to
remove that roughness; it has a negative office; when
it is more than this, it is too much. "Well, Carlton, it is
time for me to be seeing after my horse. I fear he has
not had so pleasant an afternoon as I. I have enjoyed
myself much in your suburban villa. What a beautiful
moon! but I have some very rough ground to pass over.
I daren’t canter over the ruts with the gravel-pits closeLOSS AND GAIN.

151

before me. Mr. Sheffield, do me the favour to show me
the way to the stable. Good bye to you, Carlton; good
night, Mr. Reding.”

When they were left to themselves, Charles asked
Carlton if he really meant to acquit of party spirit the
present party leaders in Oxford. “You must not mis-
understand me,” answered he ; “I do not know much
of them, but I know they are persons of great merit and
high character, and I wish to think the best of them.
They are most unfairly attacked, that is certain ; how-
ever, they are accused of wishing to make a display, of
aiming at influence and power, of loving agitation, and
so on. I cannot deny that some things they have done
have an unpleasant appearance, and give plausibility to
the charge. I wish they had, at certain times, acted
otherwise. Meanwhile, I do think it but fair to keep in
view that the existence of parties is no fault of theirs.
They are but claiming their birth-right as Protestants.
When the Church does not speak, others will speak in-
stead ; and learned men have the best right to speak.
Again, when learned men Bpeak, others will attend to
them: and thus the formation of a party is rather the
act of those who follow than of those who lead.”

CHAPTER III.

Sheffield had some friends residing at Chalton, a
neighbouring village, with a scholar of St. Michael’s,
who had a small cure with a house on it. One of them,
indeed, was known to Reding also, being no other than
our friend White, who was going into the schools, and
during the last six months had been trying to make up152

LOSS AND GAIN.

for the time he had wasted in the first years of his re-
sidence. Charles had lost sight of him, or nearly so,
since he first knew him; and at their time of life so con-
siderable an interval could not elapse without changes
in the character for good or evil, or for both. Carlton
and Charles, who were a good deal thrown together by
Sheffield’s frequent engagements with theChalton party,
were just turning homewards in their walk one evening,
when they fell in with White, who had been calling at
Mr. Bolton’s in Oxford, and was returning. They had
not proceeded very far before they were joined by Shef-
field and Mr. Barry, the curate of Chalton; and thus
the party was swelled to five.

“So you are going to lose Upton?” said Barry to
Beding; “ a capital tutor; you can ill spare him. Who
comes into his place?” “ We don’t know,” answered
Charles ; “ the Principal will call up one of the Junior
Bellows from the country, I believe.” “ Oh, but you
won’t get a man like Upton,” said Carlton: “ he knew
his subjects so thoroughly. His lecture in the Agricola,
I’ve heard your men say it might have been published.
It was a masterly, minute running comment on the text,
quite exhausting it.” “ Tes, it was his forte,” said
Charles ; “ yet he never loaded his lectures; every
thing he said had a meaning, and was wanted.” “ He
has got a capital living,” said Barry; “ a substantial
modem house, and by the rail only an hour from Lon-
don.” “ And £500 a year,” said White; “ Mr. Bolton
went over the living, and told me so. It’s in my future
neighbourhood; a very beautiful country, and a num-
ber of good families round about.” “ They say he’s
going to marry the Dean of Selsey’s daughter,” said
Barry; “do you know the family? Miss Juliet theLOSS AND GAIN.

153

thirteenth, a very pretty girl.” “Yes,” said White,
“ I know them all; a most delightful family; Mrs.
Bland is a charming woman, so very ladylike. It’s my
good luck to be under the Dean’s jurisdiction; I think
I shall pull with him capitally.” “ He’s a clever man,”
said Barry; “ his charges are always well written ; he
had a high name in his day at Cambridge.” “Hasn’t
he been lately writing against yourfriends here, White ?”
said Sheffield. “My friends !” said White; “whom
can you mean ? He has written against parties and
party leaders ; and with reason, I think. Oh, yes;
he alluded to poor Willis and some others.” “It was
more than that,” insisted Sheffield ; “ he charged against
certain sayings and doings at St. Mary’s.” “ Well, I
for one cannot approve of all that is uttered from the
pulpit there,” said White; “ I know for a fact that
Willis refers with great satisfaction to what he heard
there, as inclining him to Romanism.” “ I wish preachers
and hearers would all go over together at once, and then
we should have some quiet time for proper University
studies,” said Barry. “ Take care what you are saying,
Barry,” said Sheffield; “you mean present company
excepted. You, White, I think, come under the deno-
mination of hearers.” “I!” said White; “no such
thing. I have been to hear him before now, as most
men have; but I think him often very injudicious, or
worse. The tendency of his preaching is to make one
dissatisfied with one’s own Churchi” “ Well,” said
Sheffield, “ one’s memory plays one tricks, or I should
say that a friend of mine had said ten times as strong
things against our Church as any preacher in Oxford
ever did.” “You mean me,” said White, with earnest-
ness ; “ you have misunderstood me grievously. I have154

LOSS AND GAIN.

ever been most faithful to the Church of England. You
never heard me say any thing inconsistent with the
warmest attachment to it. I have never, indeed, denied
the claims of the Romish Church to be a branch of the
Catholic Church, nor will I,—that’s another thing quite;
there are many things which we might borrow with great
advantage from the Romanists. But I have ever loved,
and hope I shall ever venerate, my own Mother, the
Church of my baptism.”

Sheffield made an odd face, and no one spoke. White
continued, attempting to preserve an unconcerned man-
ner: “ It is remarkable that Mr. Bolton, who, though a
layman, and no divine, is a sensible, practical, shrewd
man, never liked that pulpit; he always prophesied no
good would come of it.” The silence continuing, White
presently fell upon Sheffield. “ I defy you,” he said,
with an attempt to be jocular, “ to prove what you have
been hinting; it is a great shame. It’s so easy to speak
against men, to call them injudicious, extravagant, and
so on. You are the only person—”	“ Well, well, I

know it, I know it,” said Sheffield ; “ we’re only canon-
ising you, and I am the devil’s advocate.”

Charles wanted to hear something about Willis; so
he turned the current of White’s thoughts, by coming
up and asking him, whether there was any truth in the
report he had heard from Vincent several weeks before;
had White heard from him lately ? White knew very
little about him definitely, and was not able to say
whether the report was true or not. So far was certain,
that he hadreturned from abroad, and was living at home.
Thus he had not committed himself to the Church of
Rome, whether as a theological student or as a novice;
but he could not say more. Yes, he had heard oneLOSS AND GAIN.

155

thing more; and the subject of a letter which he had
received from him corroborated it—that he was very
strong on the point that Romanism and Anglicanism
were two religions; that you could not amalgamate
them; that you must be Roman or Anglican, but could
not be Anglo-Roman or Anglo-Catholic. “This is
what a friend told me. In his letter to myself,” White
continued, “ I don’t know quite what he meant, but he
spoke a good deal of the necessity of faith in order to be
a Catholic. He said no one should go over merelv be-
cause he thought he should like it better; that he had
found out by experience that no one could live on senti-
ment; that the whole system of worship in the Romish
Church was different from what it is in our own; nay,
the very idea of worship, the idea of prayers; that the
doctrine of intention itself, viewed in all its parts, con-
stituted a new religion. He did not speak of himself
definitely, but he said generally that all this might be a
great discouragement to a convert, and throw him back.
On the whole, the tone of his letter was like a person
disappointed, and who might be reclaimed; at least, so
I thought.” “He is a wiser, even if he is a sadder
man,” said Charles: “ I did not know he had so much
in him. There is more reflection in all this than so ex-
citable a person, as he Beemed to me, is capable of exer-
cising. At the same time there is nothing in all this to
prove that he is sorry for what he has done.” “ I have
granted this,” said White; “ still the effect of the letter
was to keep people back from following him, by putting
obstacles in their way; and then we must couple this
with the fact of his going home.” Charles thought
awhile. “Vincent’s testimony,” he said, “is either a
confirmation or a mere exaggeration of what you have156

LOSS AND GAIN.

told me, according as it is independent or not.” Then
he said to himself, “ White too has more in him than I
thought; he really has spoken about Willis very sensi-
bly : what has come to him ?”

The paths soon divided; and while the Chalton pair
took the right hand, Carlton and his pupils turned to the
left. Soon Carlton parted from the two friends, and
they reached their cottage just in time to see the set-
ting sun.

CHAPTER IV.

A few days after, Carlton, Sheffield, and Reding were
talking together after dinner out of doors about White.
“ How he is altered,” said Charles, “ since I first knew
him! ” “ Altered! ” cried Sheffield ; “ he was a playful
kitten once, and now he is one of the dullest old tabbies
I ever came across.” “Altered for the better,” said
Charles; “ he has now a steady sensible way of talking;
but he was not a very wise person two years ago; he is
reading, too, really hard.” “ He has some reason,”
said Sheffield, “ for he is sadly behindhand; but there
is another cause of his steadiness, which perhaps you
know.” “ I ! no indeed,” answered Charles. “ I
thought of course you knew it,” said Sheffield; “ you
don’t mean to say you have not heard that he is engaged
to some Oxford girl?” “Engaged!” cried Charles,
“how absurd!” “I don’t see that at all, my dear
Reding,” said Carlton. “It’s not as if he could not
afford it; he has a good living waiting for him ; and,
moreover, he is thus losing no time, which is a great
thing in life. Much time is often lost. White willLOSS AND GAIN.

157

soon find himself settled in every sense of the word, in
mind, in life, in occupation.”

Charles said that there was one thing which could
not help surprising him, namely, that when White first
came up, he was so strong in his advocacy of clerical
celibacy. Carlton and Sheffield laughed. “And do
you think,” said the former, “that a youth of eighteen
can have an opinion on such a subject, or knows himself
well enough to make a resolution in his own case ? Do
you really think it fair to hold a man committed to all
the random opinions and extravagant sayings into which
he was betrayed when he first left school ?” “ He had
read some ultra-book or other,” said Sheffield, “ or seen
some beautiful nun sculptured on a chancel-screen, and
was carried away by romance—as others have been and
are.” “ Don’t you suppose,” said Carlton, “ that those
good fellows, who now are so full of ‘ sacerdotal purity,’
‘ angelical blessedness,’ and so on, will one and all be
married by this time ten years ?”	“ I’ll take a bet of

it,” said Sheffield: “one will give in early, one late,
but there is a time destined for all. Pass some ten or
twelve years, as Carlton says, and we shall find A. B.
on a curacy the happy father of ten children; C. D.
wearing on a long courtship till a living falls; E. F. in
his honeymoon; G. H. lately presented by Mrs. H.
with twins; I. K. full of joy, just accepted ; L. M. may
remain what Gibbon calls ‘ a column in the midst of
ruins,’ a very tottering column too.” “ Do you really
think,” said Charles, “ that people mean so little what
they say ? ” “ You take matters too seriously, Reding,”
answered Carlton ; “ who does not change his opinions
between twenty and thirty ? A young man enters life
with his father’s or tutor’s views; he changes them for158

LOSS AND GAIN.

his own. The more modest and diffident he is, the
more faith he has, so much the longer does he speak the
words of othets; but the force of circumstances, or the
vigour of his mind, infallibly obliges him at last to have
a mind of his own; that is, if he is good for any thing.”
“But I suspect,” said Reding, “that the last genera-
tion, whether of fathers or tutors, had no very exalted
ideas of clerical celibacy.” “ Accidents often clothe us
with opinions which we wear for a time,” said Carlton.
“ Well, I honour people who wear their family suit; I
don’t honour those at all who begin with foreign fashions
and then abandon them.” “ A few years more of life,”
said CarltoD,smiling,“will make your judgment kinder.”
“ I don’t like talkers,” continued Charles ; “ I don’t
think I ever shall; I hope not.” “ I know better what’s
at the bottom bf it,” said Sheffield; “ but I can’t stay;
I must go in and read; Reding is too fond of a gossip.”
“ Who talks so much as you, Sheffield ?” said Charles.
“ But I talk fast when I talk,” answered he, “ and get
through a great deal of work; then I give over: but
you prose, and muse, and sigh, and prose again.” And
so he left them.

“What does he mean?” asked Carlton. Charles
slightly coloured and laughed : “You are a man I say
things to, I don’t to others,” he made answer; “as to
Sheffield, he fancies he has found it out of himself.”
Carlton looked round at him sharply and curiously. “I
am ashamed of myself,” said Charles, laughing and
looking confused ; “ I have made you think that I have
something important to tell, but really I have nothing
at all.” “ Well, out with it,” said Carlton. “ Why, to
tell the truth,—no, really, it is too absurd. I have
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159

back, and resumed ; “ Why, it was only this, that Shef-
field fancies I have some sneaking kindness for . . .
celibacy myself.” “ Kindness for whom ? ” said Carlton.
“ Kindness for celibacy.” There was a pause, and Carl-
ton’s face somewhat changed. “ Oh, my dear good fel-
low,” he said, kindly, “ so you are one of them; but it
will go off.” “ Perhaps it will,” said Charles: “ oh, I
am laying no stress upon it. It was Sheffield who
made me mention it.” A real difference of mind and
view had evidently been struck upon by two friends,
very congenial and very fond of each other.' There
was a pause for a few seconds.

“ You are so sensible a fellow, Keding,” said Carlton,
“ it surprises me that you should take up this notion.”
“ It’s no new notion taken up,” answered Charles; “you
will smile, but I had it when a boy at school, and I have
ever since fancied that I should never marry. Not that
the feeling has never intermitted, but it is the habit of
my mind. My general thoughts run in that one way,
that I shall never marry. If I did, I should dread Tha-
laba’s punishment.” Carlton put his hand on Keding’s
shoulder, and gently shook him to and fro; “Well, it
surprises me,” he said; then, after a pause, “I have
been accustomed to think both celibacy and marriage
good in their way. In the Church of Home, great good,
I see, comes of celibacy; but depend on it, my dear
Keding, you are making a great blunder, if you are
for introducing celibacy into the Anglican Church.”
“There’s nothing against it in Prayer-book or Ar-
ticles,” said Charles. “ Perhaps not; but the whole
genius, structure, working of our Church goes the
other way. For instance, we have no monasteries to
relieve the poor; and if we had, I suspect, as things160

LOSS AND GAIN.

are, a parson’s wife would, in practical substantial use-
fulness, be indefinitely superior to all the monks that
were ever shaven. I declare, I think the Bishop of
Ipswich is almost justified in giving out that none but
married men have a chance of preferment from him;
nay, the Bishop of Abingdon, who makes a rule of
bestowing his best livings as marriage-portions to the
most virtuous young ladies in his diocese.” Carlton
spoke with more energy than was usual with him.

Charles answered, that he was not looking to the ex-
pediency or feasibility of the thing, but at what seemed
to him best in itself, and what he could not help admir-
ing. “ I said nothing about the celibacy of clergy,”
he observed, “but of celibacy generally.” “Celibacy
has no place in our idea or our system of religion, de-
pend on it,” said Carlton. “ It is nothing to the pur-
pose, whether there is any thing in the Articles against
it; it is not a question about formal enactments, but
whether the genius of Anglicanism is not utterly at
variance with it. The experience of three hundred years
is surely abundant for our purpose; if we don’t know
what our religion is in that time, what time will be long
enough ? there are forms of religion which have not
lasted so long from first to last. Now enumerate the
cases of celibacy for celibacy’s sake in that time, and
what will be the sum total of them ? Some instances
there are; but even Hammond, who died unmarried,
was going to marry when his mother wished it. On the
other hand, if you look out for types of our Church, can
you find truer than the married excellence of Hooker the
profound, Taylor the devotional, and Bull the polemical?
The very first reformed primate is married; in Pole and
Parker, the two systems, Boman and Anglican, comeLOSS AND GAIN.

161

into strong contrast.” “ Well, it seems to me as much
a yoke of bondage,” said Charles, “to compel mar-
riage as to compel celibacy, and that is what you are
really driving at. You are telling me that any one is a
black sheep who does not marry.” “ Not a very prac-
tical difficulty to you1 at this moment,” said Carlton;
“ no one is asking you to go about on Ccelebs’ mission
just now, with Aristotle in hand and the class-list in
view.” “Well, excuse me,” said Charles, “if I have
said any thing very foolish; you don’t suppose I argue
on such subjects with others.”

CHAPTER Y.

They had by this time strolled as far as Carlton’s lodg-
ing, where the books happened to be on which Charles
was at that time more immediately employed; and they
took two or three turns under some fine beeches which
stood in front of the house, before entering it. “ Tell
me, Reding,” said Carlton, “ for really I don’t under-
stand, what are your reasons for admiring what, in truth,
is simply an unnatural state.” “ Don’t let us talk more,
my dear Carlton,” answered Reding; “ I shall go on
making a fool of myself. Let well alone, or bad alone,
pray do.” It was evident that there was some strong
feeling irritating him inwardly; the manner and words
were too serious for the occasion. Carlton, too, felt
strongly upon what seemed at first sight a very secondary
question, or he would have let it alone, as Charles asked
him. “ No; as we are on the subject, let me get at
your view,” said he: “it was said in the beginning,
‘Increase and multiply;’ therefore celibacy is unnatural.”162

LOSS AND GAIN.

“ Supernatural,” said Charles, smiling. “ Is not that a
word without an idea?” asked Carlton. “Weare taught
by Butler that there is an analogy between nature and
grace; else you might parallel paganism to nature, and
where paganism is contrary to nature, say that it is super-
natural. The Wesleyan convulsions are preternatural;
why not supernatural ?” “T really think that our di-
vines, or at least some of them, are on my side here,”
said Charles—“ Jeremy Taylor, I believe.” “ You have
not told me what you mean by supernatural,” said Carl-
ton; “I want to get at what you think, you know.”
“It seems to me,” skid Charles, “that Christianity,
being the perfection of nature, is both like it and unlike
it;—like it, where it is the same or as much as nature ;
unlike it, where it is as much and more. I mean by su-
pernatural the perfection of nature.” “ Give me an in-
stance,” said Carlton. “ Why consider, Carlton; our
Lord says, ‘ Ye have heard that it has been said of old
time,—but I say unto you; ’ that contrast denotes the
more perfect way, or the gospel. . . He came, not to
destroy, but to fulfil the law. . . I can’t recollect of a
sudden; ... oh, for instance, this is a case in point;
He abolished the permission which had been given to the
Jews because of the hardness of their hearts.” “ Not
quite in point,” said Carlton, “for the Jews, in their
divorces, had fallen below nature. ‘ Let no man put
asunder,’ was the rule in paradise.”—“ Still, surely the
idea of an Apostle, unmarried, pure, in fast and naked-
ness, and at length a martyr, is a higher idea than that
of one of the old Israelites, sitting under his vine and fig-
tree, full of temporal goods, and surrounded by sons and
grandson b. I am not derogating from Gideon or Caleb;
I am adding to St. Paul.” “ St. Paul’s is a very par-LOSS AND GAIN.

163

ticular case,” said Carlton.—“ But he himself lays down,
the general maxim, that it is ‘ good ’ for a man to con-
tinue as he was.”—“There we come to a question of
criticism, what ‘ good ’ means; I may think it means
‘ expedient,’ and what he says about the ‘ present dis-
tress’ confirms it.”—“Well, I won’t go to criticism,” said
Charles: “ take the text, ‘ in sin hath my mother con-
ceived me.’ Do not these words show that, over and
above the doctrine of original sin, there is (to say the
least) great risk of marriage leading to sin in married
people ? ” “ My,dear Reding,” said Carlton, astonished,
“ you are running into Gnosticism.” “ Not knowingly
or willingly,” answered Charles; “ but understand what
I mean. It’s not a subject I can talk about; but it
seems to me, without of course saying that married per-
sons must sin (which would be Gnosticism), that there is
a danger of sin. But don’t let me say more on this point.”
“ Well,” said Carlton, after thinking awhile, “ Jhave
been accustomed to consider Christianity as the perfec-
tion of man as a whole, body, soul, and spirit. Don’t
misunderstand me. Pantheists say body and intellect,
leaving out the moral principle; but I say spirit as well
as mind. Spirit, or the principle of religious faith and
obedience, Bhould be the master principle, the hegemoni-
con. To this both intellect and body are subservient;
but as this supremacy does not imply the ill-usage, the
bondage of the intellect, neither does it of the body;
both should be well treated.”—“Well,I think, on the
contrary, it does imply in one sense the bondage of in-
tellect and body too. What is faith but the submission
of the intellect ? and as ‘ every high thought is brought
into captivity,’ so are we expressly told to bring the body
into subjection too. They are both well treated, when164

LOSS AND GAIN.

they are treated so as to be made fit instruments of the
sovereign principle.” “ That is what I call unnatural,”
said Carlton. “And it is what I mean by supernatural,”
answered Eeding, getting a little too earnest. “ How is
it supernatural, or adding to nature, to destroy a part of
it?” asked Carlton. Charles was puzzled. It was a
way, he said, towards perfection; but he thought that
perfection came after death, not here. Our nature could
not be perfect with a corruptible body ; the body was
treated now as a body of death. “Well, Eeding,”
answered Carlton, “ you make Christianity a very dif-
ferent religion from what our Church considers it, I
really think;” and he paused awhile.

“ Look here,” he proceeded ; “ how can we rejoice in
Christ, as having been redeemed by Him, if we are in
this sort of gloomy penitential state ? How much is said
in St. Paul about peace, thanksgiving, assurance, com-
fort, and the like! Old things are passed away; the
Jewish Law is destroyed ; pardon and peace are come ;
that is the Gospel.” “ Don’t you think, then,” said
Charles, “ that we should grieve for the sins into which
we are daily betrayed, and for the more serious offences
which from time to time we may have committed?”
“ Certainly ; we do so in Morning and Evening Prayer,
and in the Communion Service.” “ Well, but supposing
a youth, as is so often the case, has neglected religion
altogether, and has a whole load of sins, and very heinous
ones, all upon him,—do you think that, when he turns
over a new leaf, and comes to Communion, he is, on
saying the Confession (saying it with that contrition with
which Buch persons ought to say it), pardoned at once,
and has nothing more to fear about his past sins ?” “I
should say, ‘ Yes,’ ” answered Carlton. “ Eeally,” saidLOSS AND GAIN.

165

Charles, thoughtfully. “ Of course,” said Carlton, “ I
suppose him truly sorry or penitent: whether he is so
or not, his future life will show.” “ Well, somehow, I
cannot master this idea,” said Charles; “ I think most
serious persons, even fora little sin, would go on fidgeting
themselves, and would not suppose they gained pardon
directly they asked for it.” “ Certainly,” answered
Carlton; “ but God pardons those who do not pardon
themselves.” “That is,” said Charles, “who don't
at once feel peace, assurance, and comfort; who don't
feel the perfect joy of the Gospel.” “Such persons grieve,
but rejoice too,” said Carlton. “ But tell me, Carlton,”
said Reding; “ is, or is not, their not forgiving them-
selves, their sorrow, and trouble, pleasing to God ?”—
“ Surely.”—“ Thus a certain self-infliction for sin com-
mitted is pleasing to Him; and, if so, how does it matter
whether it is inflicted on mind or body ?”	“ It is not

properly a self-infliction,” answered Carlton; “self-inflic-
tion implies intention; grief at sin is something spon-
taneous. When you afflict yourself on purpose, then at
once you pass from pure Christianity.” “ Well,” said
Charles, “ I certainly fancied that fasting, abstinence,
labours, celibacy, might be taken as a make-up for sin.
It is not a very far-fetched idea. You recollect Dr.
Johnson’s standing in the rain in the market-place at
Lichfield when a man, as a penance for some disobedience
to his father when a boy.” “But, my dear Reding,”
said Carlton, “ let me bring you back to what you said
originally, and to my answer to you, which what you
now say only makes more apposite. You began by say-
ing that celibacy was a perfection of nature, now you
make it a penance; first it is good and glorious, next it
is a medicine and punishment.” “ Perhaps our highest166

LOSS AND GAIN.

perfection here is penance,” said Charles ; “ but I don’t
know; I don’t profess to have clear ideas upon the sub-
ject. I have talked more than I like. Let us at
length give over.”

They did, in consequence, pass to other subjects con-
nected with Charles’s reading ; then they entered the
house, and set to upon Polybius: but it could not be
denied that for the rest of the day Carlton’s manner was
not quite his own, as if something had annoyed him.
Next morning he was as usual.

CHAPTER VI.

It is impossible to stop the growth of the mind. Here
was Charles with his thoughts turned away from reli-
gious controversy for two years, yet with his religious
views progressing, unknown to himself, the whole time.
It could not have been otherwise, if he was to live a
religious life at all. If he was to worship and obey his
Creator, intellectual acts, conclusions, and judgments,
must accompany that worship and obedience. He might
not realise his own belief till questions had been put to
him; but then a single discussion with a friend, such
as the above with Carlton, would bring out what he
really did hold to his own apprehension,—would ascer-
tain for him the limits of each opinion as he held it, and
the inter-relations of opinion with opinion. He had not
yet given names to these opinions, much less had they
taken a theological form; nor could they, under his cir-
cumstances, be expressed in theological language; but
here he was, a young man of twenty-two, professing inLOSS AND GAIN.

167

an hour’s conversation with a friend, what really were
the Catholic doctrines and usages, of penance, purgatory,
councils of perfection, mortification of self, and clerical
celibacy. No wonder that all this annoyed Carlton,
though he no more than Charles perceived that all this
Catholicism did in fact lie hid under his professions ;
but he felt, in what Reding put out, the presence of some-
thing, as he expressed it, “ very unlike the Church of
Englandsomething new and unpleasant to him, and
withal something which had a body in it, which had a
momentum, which could not be passed over as a vague
sudden sound or transitory cloud, but which had much
behind it, which made itself felt, which struck heavily.

And here we see what is meant when a person says
that the Catholic system comes home to his mind, fulfils
his ideas of religion, satisfies his sympathies, and the
like; and thereupon becomes a Catholic. Such a person
is often said to go by private judgment, to be choosing
his religion by his own standard of what a religion ought
to be. Now it need not be denied that those who are
external to the Church must begin with private judg-
ment ; they use it in order ultimately to supersede it;
as a man out of doors uses a lamp in a dark night, and
puts it out when he gets home. What would be thought
of his bringing it into his drawing-room ? what would the
goodly company there assembled before a genial hearth
and under glittering chandeliers, the bright ladies and
the well-dressed gentlemen, say to him if he came in
with a great coat on his back, a hat on his head, an
umbrella under his arm, and a large stable-lantern in his
hand ? Tet what would be thought, on the other hand,
if he precipitated himself into the inhospitable night and
the war of the elements in his ball-dress ? “ When the168

LOSS AND GAIN.

king came in to see the guests, he saw a man who had
not on a wedding-garmenthe saw a man who deter-
mined to live in the Church as he had lived out of it, who
would not use his privileges, who would not exchange
reason forfaith,whowouldnot accommodate histhoughts
and doings to the glorious scene which surrounded him,
who was groping for the hidden treasure and digging for
the pearl of price in the high, lustrous, all-jewelled Tem-
ple of the Lord of Hosts ; who shut his eyes and specu-
lated, when he might open them and see. There is no
absurdity, then, or inconsistency in a person first using
his private judgment and then denouncing its use.
Circumstances change duties.

But still, after all, the person in question does not,
strictly speaking, judge of the external system presented
to him by his private ideas, but he brings in the dicta
of that system to confirm and to justify certain private
judgments and personal feelings and habits already ex-
isting. Charles, for instance, felt a difficulty in deter-
mining howand when the sins of a Christian are forgiven;
he had a great notion that celibacy was better than
married life. He was not the first person in the Church
of England who had had such thoughts; to numbers,
doubtless, before him they had occurred; but these num-
bers had looked abroad, and seen nothing around them
to justify what they felt, and their feelings had, in con-
sequence, either festered within them, or withered away.
But when a man, thus constituted within, falls under the
shadow of Catholicism without, then the mighty Creed
at once produces an influence upon him. He sees that
it justifies his thoughts, explains his feelings ; he under-
stands that it numbers, corrects, harmonises, completes
them: and he is led to ask what is the authority of thisLOSS AND GAIN.

169

foreign teaching; and then, when he finds it is what was
once received in England from north to south, in Eng-
land from the very time that Christianity was introduced
here; that, as far as historical records go, Christianity
and Catholicism are synonymous; that it is still the faith
of the largest section of the Christian world; and that
the faith of his own country is held no where but within
her own limits and those of her own colonies; nay, fur-
ther, that it is very difficult to say what faith she has,
or that she has any,—then he submits himself to the
Catholic Church, not by a process of criticism, but as
a pupil to a teacher.

In saying this, of course it is not denied, on the one
hand,that there may be persons whocometotheCatholic
Church on imperfect motives, or in a wrong way; who
choose it by criticism, and who, unsubdued by its majesty
and its grace, go on criticising when they are in it; and
who, if they persist and do not learn humility, may criti-
cise themselves out of it again. Nor is it denied, on the
other hand, that some who are not Catholics may pos-
sibly choose (for instance) Methodism, in the above
moral way, viz. because it confirms and justifies the in-
ward feeling of their hearts. This is certainly possible
in idea, though what there is venerable, awful, super-
human in the Wesleyan Conference to persuade one to
take it as a prophet, is a perplexing problem; yet after
all, the matter of fact we conceive to lie the other way,
viz. that Wesleyans and other sectaries put themselveB
above their system, not below it; and though they may
in bodily position “ sit under” their preacher, yet in the
position of their souls and spirits, minds and judgments,
they are exalted high above him.

But to return to the subject of our narrative. What170

LOSS AND GAIN.

a mystery is the soul of man! Here was Charles, busy
with Aristotle and Euripides, Thucydides and Lucretius,
yet all the while growing towards the Church, “ to the
measure of the age of the fulness of Christ.” His
mother had said to him that he could not escape his
destiny; it was true, though it was to be fulfilled in a
way which she, affectionate heart, could not compasB,
did not dream of. He could not escape the destiny of
being one of the elect of God; he could not escape that
destiny which the grace of his Redeemer had stamped
on his soul in baptism, which his good angel had seen
written there, and had done his zealous part to keep in-
violate and bright, which his own co-operation with the
influences of Heaven had confirmed and secured. He
could not escape the destiny, in due time, in God’s time
—(though it might be long, though angels might be
anxious, though the Church might plead, as if defrauded
of her promised increase of a stranger, yet a son; yet
come it must, it was written in Heaven, and the slow
wheels of time each hour brought it nearer)—he could
not ultimately escape his destiny of becoming a Catholic.
And even before that blessed hour, as an opening
flower scatters sweets, so the strange unknown odour,
pleasing to some, odious to others, went abroad from
him upon the winds, and made them marvel what could
be near them, and made them look curiously and anx-
iously at him, while he was unconscious of his own
condition. Let us be patient with him, as his Maker is
patient, and bear that he should do a work slowly which
he will do well.

Alas! while Charles had been growing one way,
Sheffield had been growing another; and what that
growth had been, will appear from a conversation whichLOSS AND GAIN.

171

took place between the two friends, and which shall he
related in the following chapter.

CHAPTER VII.

Carlton had opened the small church he was serving,
for Saints’-day services during the Long Vacation ; and
not being in the way to have any congregation, and the
church at Horsley being closed except on Sundays, he
had asked his two pupils, in order to make one, to walk
over with him on St. Matthew’s day, which, as the sea-
son was fine, and the walk far from a dull one, they were
very glad to do. When church was over, Carlton had
to attend a sick call which lay still further from Horsley,
and the two young men walked back together.

“ I did not know Carlton was so much of a party
man,” said Sheffield; “ did not his reading the Athana-
sian Creed Btrike you ? ”	“ That’s no mark of party

surely,” answered Charles.—“ To read it on days like
these, I think, is a mark of party; it’s going out of the
way.”—Charles did not see how obeying in so plain a
matter the clear direction of the Prayer-book could be a
party act. “ Direction!” said Sheffield, “ as if the ques-
tion were not, is that direction now binding ? the sense,
the understanding of the Church of this day determines
its obligation.” “ The prima facie view of the matter,”
said Charles, “ is, that they who do but follow what the
Prayer-book enjoins are of all people farthest from being
a party.” “Not at all,” said Sheffield; “rigid adhe-
rence to old customs surely may be the badge of a party.
Now consider; ten years ago, before the study of Church-
history was revived, neither ArianismnorAthanasianism172

LOSS AND GAIN.

were thought of at all, or, if thought of, they were con-
sidered as questions of words, at least as held by most
minds—one as good as the other.” “ I should say so
too, in one sense,” said Charles, “ that is, I should hope
that numbers of persons, for instance the unlearned, who
were in Arian communities, spoke Arian language, and
yet did not mean it. I think I have heard that some
ancient missionary of the G-oths or Huns was an Arian.”
“Well, I will speak more precisely,” said Sheffield:
“ an Oxford man, some ten years since, was going to
publish a history of the Nicene Council; and the book-
seller proposed to him to prefix an engraving of St.
Athanasius, which he had found in some old volume.
He was strongly dissuaded from doing so by a brother
clergyman, not from any feeling of his own, but because
‘ Athanasius was a very unpopular name among us.’ ”
“ One swallow does not make a spring,” said Charles.
“This clergyman,” continued Sheffield, “was a friend
of the most High-Church writers of the day.” “ Of
course,” said Reding, “ there has always been a hetero-
dox school in our Church—I know that well enough—
but it never has been powerful. Tour lax friend was
one of them.” “ I believe not, indeed,” answered Shef-
field ; “he lived out of controversy, was a literary, ac-
complished person, and a man of piety to boot. He did
not express any feeling of his own; he did but witness
to a fact, that the name of Athanasius was unpopular.”
“So little was known about history,” said Charles,
“ this is not surprising. St. Athanasius, you know, did
not write the Creed called after him. It is possible
to think him intemperate, without thinking the Creed
wrong.” “Well, then, again; there’s Beatson, Divi-
nity Professor; no one will call him in any sense a partyLOSS AND GAIN.

173

man : lie was put in by the Tories, and never has com-
mitted himself to any liberal theories in theology. Now,
a man who attended his private lectures assures me that
he told the men,‘ D’ye see,’ said he, ‘ I take it, that the
old Church-of-England mode of handling the Creed went
out with Bull. After Locke wrote, the old orthodox
phraseology came into disrepute.’ ” “ Well, perhaps he
meant,” said Charles, “ that learning died away, which
was the case. The old theological language is plainly
a learned language; when fathers and schoolmen were
not read, of course it would be in abeyance ; when they
were read again, it has revived.” “ No, no,” answered
Sheffield, “ he said much more on another occasion.
Speaking of Creeds, and the like, £I hold,’ he said,
‘ that the majority of the educated laity of our Church
are Sabellians.’ ”

Charles was silent, and hardly knew what reply to
make. Sheffield went on: “I was present some years
ago, when I was quite a boy, when a sort of tutor of
mine was talking to one of the most learned and ortho-
dox divines of the day, a man whose name has never
been associated with party, and the near relation and
connexion of high dignitaries, about a plan of his own
for writing a history of the Councils. This good and
able man listened with politeness, applauded the pro-
ject ; then added, in a laughing way, ‘ You know you
have chosen just the dullest subject in Church-history.’
Now the Councils begin with the Nicene Creed, and em-
brace nearly all doctrinal subjects whatever.” “ My dear
Sheffield,” said Charles, “ you have fallen in with a par-
ticular set or party of men yourself; very respectable,
good men, I don’t doubt, but no fair specimens of the
whole Church.” “ I don’t bring them as authorities,”174

LOSS AND GAIN.

answered Sheffield, “but as witnesses.” “ Still,” said
Charles, “ I know perfectly well, that there was a con-
troversy at the end of the last century between Bishop
Horsley and others, in which he brought out distinctly
one part at least of the Athanasian doctrine.” “ His
controversy was not a defence of the Athanasian Creed,
I know well,” said Sheffield; “ for the subject came into
Upton’s Article-lecture; it was with Priestley; but,
whatever it was, divines would only think it all very
fine, just as his Sermons on Prophecy. It is another
question whether they would recognise the worth either
of the one or of the other.' They receive the scholastic
terms about the Trinity, just as they receive the doctrine
that the Pope is Antichrist. When Horsley says the
latter, or something of the kind, good old clergymen say,

' Certainly, certainly, oh yes, it’s the old Church-of-Eng-
land doctrine,’ thinkingit right, indeed, to be maintained,
but not caring themselves to maintain it, or at most
professing it just when mentioned, but not really think-
ing about it from one year’s end to the other. And so
with regard to the doctrine of the Trinity, they say,

‘ the great Horsley,’ ‘ the powerful Horsley;’ they don’t
indeed dispute his doctrine, but they don’t care about it;
they look on him as a doughty champion, armed cap-a-pie,
who has put down dissent, who has cut off the head of
some impudent non-protectionist, or insane chartist, or
spouter in a vestry, who, under cover of theology, had
run a tilt against tithes and Church-rates.”

“ I can’t think so badly of our present divines,” said
Charles; “ I know that in this very place there are
various orthodox writers, whom no one would call party
men.” “ Stop,” said Sheffield, “ understand me, I was
not speaking against them. I was but saying that theseLOSS AND GhffIN.

175

anti-Athanasian views were not unfrequent. I have been
in the way of hearing a good deal on the subject at my
private tutor’s, and have kept my eyes about me since
I have been here. The Bishop of Derby was a friend
of Sheen’s (my private tutor), and got his promotion
when I was with him; and Sheen told me that he wrote
to him on that occasion, ‘ What shall I read ? I don’t
know any thing of theology.’ I rather think he was
recommended, or proposed to read Scott’s Bible.” “ It’s
easy to bring instances,” said Charles, “ when you have
all your own way; what you say is evidently all an ex-
parte statement.” “ Take again Shipton, who died
lately,” continued Sheffield; “what a high position he
held in the Church; yet it is perfectly well known that
he thought it a mistake to use the word ‘ Person ’ in the
doctrine of the Trinity. What makes this stranger is,
that he was so very severe on clergymen (Tractarians,
for instance) who evade the sense of the Articles. Now
he was a singularly honest, straightforward man; he
despised money; he cared nothing for public opinion;
yet he was a Sabellian. Would he have eaten the
bread of the Church, as it is called, for a day, unless he
had felt that his opinions were not inconsistent with his
profession as Dean of Bath, and Prebendary of Dor-
chester ? Is it not plain that he considered the prac-
tice of the Church to have modified, to have re-inter-
preted its documents ? ”	“ Why,” said Charles, “ the

practice of the Church cannot make black white; or, if
a sentence means yes, make it mean no. I won’t deny
that words are often vague and uncertain in their sense,
and frequently need a comment, so that the teaching of
the day has great influence in determining their sense;
but the question is, whether the counter-teaching of176

LOSS AND GAIN.

every dean, every prebendary, every clergyman, every
bishop in the whole Church, could make the Athanasian
Creed Sabellian; I think not.” “ Certainly not,” an-
swered Sheffield; “ but the clergymen I speak of simply
say that they are not bound to the details of the Creed,
only to the great outline that there is a Trinity.”
“Great outline!” said Charles, “great stuff! an Uni-
tarian would not deny that. He, of course, believes in
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit: though he thinks the
Son a creature, and the Spirit an influence.” “Well,
I don’t deny,” said Sheffield, “ that if Dean Shipton was
a sound member of the Church, Dr. Priestley might have
been also. But my doubt is, whether, if the Tractarian
school had not risen, Priestley might not have been, bad
he lived to this time, I will not say a positively sound
member, but sound enough for preferment.” “ If the
Tractarian school had not risen ! that is but saying if
our Church was other than it is. What is that school
but a birth, an offspring of the Church ? and if the
Church had not given birth to one party of men for its
defence, it would have given birth to another.” “ No,
no,” said Sheffield, “I assure you the old school of
doctrine was all but run out when they began; and I
declare I wish they had let things alone. There
was the doctrine of the Apostolical Succession; a few
good old men were its sole remaining professors in the
Church: and a great personage, on one occasion, quite
scoffed at their persisting to hold it. He maintained
the doctrine went out with the non-jurors. * You are
so few,’ he said, ‘ that we can count you.’ ”

Charles was not pleased with the subject, on various
accounts. He did not like wbat seemed to him an attack
of Sheffield’s upon the Church of England; and, besides,LOSS AND GAIN.

177

he began to feel uncomfortable misgivings and doubts
whether that attack was not well founded, to which he
did not like to be exposed. Accordingly he kept silence,
and, after a Bhort interval, attempted to change the sub-
ject ; but Sheffield’s hand was in, and he would not be
baulked; so he presently began again. “ I have been
speaking,” he said, “ of the liberal section of our Church.
There are four parties in the Church. Of these the old
Tory, or country party, which is out and out the largest,
has no opinion at all, but merely takes up the theology
or no-theology of the day, and cannot properly be said
to ‘ hold ’ what the Creed calls ‘ the Catholic faith.’ It
does not deny it; it may not knowingly disbelieve it;
but it gives no signs of actually holding it, beyond the
fact that it treats it with respect. I will venture to say,
that not a country parson of them all, from year’s end to
year’s end, makes once a year what Catholics call ‘ an
act of faith ’ in that special and very distinctive mystery
contained in the clauses of the Athanasian Creed.” Then
seeing Charles looked rather hurt, he added, “ I am not
speaking of any particular clergyman here or there, but
of the great majority of them. After the Tory party
comes the Liberal; which also dislikes the Athanasian
Creed, as I have said. Thirdly, as to the Evangelical;
I know you have one of the Nos. of the ‘ Tracts for the
Times ’ about objective faith. Now that tract seems to
prove that the Evangelical party is implicitly Sabellian,
and is tending to avow that belief. This too has been
already the actual course of Evangelical doctrine both on
the Continent and in America. The Protestants of
Geneva, Holland, Ulster, and Boston have all, I believe,
become Unitarians, or the like. Dr. Adam Clarke too,
the celebrated "Wesleyan, held the distinguishing Sabel-

M178

LOSS AND GAIN.

lian tenet, as Doddridge is said to have done before him.
All this considered, I do think I have made out a good
case for my original assertion, that at this time of day it
is a party thing to go out of the way to read the Athana-
sian Creed.” “ I don’t agree with you at all,” said
Charles; “ you say a great deal more than you have a
warrant to do, and draw sweeping conclusions from
slender premisses. This, at least, is what seems to me.
I wish too you would not so speak of ‘ making out a
case.’ It is as if these things were mere topics for dis-
putation . And I don’t like your taking the wrong side;
you are rather fond of doing so.” “ Reding,” answered
Sheffield, “ I speak what I think, and ever will do so.
I will be no party man. I don’t attempt, like Vincent,
to unite opposites. He is of all parties, I am of none.
I think I see pretty well the hollowness of all.” “ 0
my dear Sheffield,” cried Charles in distress, “think
what you are saying; you don’t mean what you say.
You are speaking as if you thought that belief in the
Athanasian Creed was a mere party opinion.” Sheffield
first was silent; then he said, “ Well, I beg your pardon,
if I have said any thing to annoy you, or have expressed
myself intemperately. But surely one has no need to be-
lieve what somanypeople either disbelieve or disregard.”
The subject then dropped; and presently Carlton over-
took them on the farmer’s pony, which he had borrowed.

CHAPTER VIII.

Reding had for near two years put aside his doubts
about the Articles; but it was like putting off the
payment of a bill—a respite, not a deliverance. TheLOSS AND GAIN.

179

two conversations which we have been recording, bringing
him to issue on most important subjects first with one,
then with another, of two intimate friends, who were
bound by the Articles as' well as he, uncomfortably re-
minded him of his debt to the University and Church;
and the nearer approach of his examination and degree
inflicted on him the thought that the time was coming,
when he must be prepared to discharge it.

One day, when he was strolling out with Carlton, to-
ward the end of the Vacation, he had been led to speak
of the number of religious opinions and parties in Oxford,
which had so many bad effects, making so many talk, so
many criticise, and not a few perhaps sceptical about
truth altogether. Then he said, that, evil as it was in a
place of education, yet he feared it was unavoidable, if
Carlton’s doctrine about parties were correct; for if there
was a place where differences of religious opinions would
show themselves, it would be in a University. “ I am
far from denying it,” said Carlton; “ but all systems
have their defects ; no polity, no theology, no ritual is
perfect. One only came directly and simply from
Heaven, the Jewish; and even that was removed be-
cause of its unprofitableness. This is no derogation from
the perfection of Divine Revelation, for it arises from the
subject-matter on and through which it operates.” There
was a pause; then Carlton went on: “ It is the fault of
most young thinkers to be impatient, if they do not find
perfection in every thing; they are ‘new brooms.’”
Another pause; he went on again: “ What form of
religion is less objectionable than ours ? You see the
inconveniences of your own system, for you experience
them; you have not felt, and cannot know, those of
others.” Charles was still silent, and went on plucking180

LOSS AND GAIN.

and chewing leaves from the shrubs and bushes through
which their path winded. At length he said, “ I should
not like to say it to any one but you, Carlton; but, do
you know, I was very uncomfortable about the Articles,
going on for two years since; I really could not under-
stand them, and-their history makes matters worse. I
put the subject from me altogether; but now my exami-
nation and degree are coming on, I must take it up
again.” “ You must have been put into the Article-
lecture early,” said Carlton. “ Well, perhaps I was not
up to the subject,” answered Charles. “ I didn’t mean
that,” said Carlton; “ but as to the thing itself, my
dear fellow, it happens every day, and especially to
thoughtful people like yourself. It should not annoy
you.” “ But my fidget is,” said Charles, “ lest my dif-
ficulties should return, and I should not be able to
remove them.” “ You should take all these things
calmly,” said Carlton; “ all things, as I have said, have
their difficulties. If you wait till every thing is as it should
be, or might be conceivably, you will do nothing, and
will lose life. The moral world is not an open country ;
it is already marked and mapped out; it has its roads.
You can’t go across country; if you attempt a steeple-
chase, you will break your neck for your pains. Forms
of religion are facts; they have each their history.
They existed before you were born, and will survive you.
You must choose, you cannot make.” “ I know,” said
Reding, “ I can’t make a religion, nor can I perhaps find
one better than my own. I don’t want to do so; but
this is not my difficulty. Take your own image. I am
jogging along my own road, and lo, a high turnpike,
fast locked; and my poor pony can’t clear it. I don’t
complain; but there’s the fact, or at least may be.”LOSS AND GAIN.

181

“ The pony must,” answered Carlton; “ or if not, there
must be some way about; else what is the good of a
road ? In religion all roads have their obstacles; one
has a strong gate across it, another goes through a bog.
Is no one to go on ? Is religion to be at a dead-lock ?
Is Christianity to die out ? Where else will you go ?
Not surely to Methodism, or Plymouth-brotherism. As
to the Romish Church, I suspect it has more difficulties
than we have. You must sacrifice your private judg-
ment.” “ All this is very good,” answered Charles;
“ but what is very expedient, still may be very impos-
sible. The finest words about the necessity of getting
home before night-fall will not enable my poor little
pony to take the gate.” “ Certainly not,” said Carlton;
“ but if you had a command from a benevolent Prince,
your own Sovereign and Benefactor, to go along the
road steadily till evening, and he would meet you at the
end of your journey, you would be quite sure that he
who had appointed the end had also assigned the means.
And in the difficulty in question, you ought to look out
for some mode of opening the gate, or some gap in the
hedge, or some parallel cut, some way or other, which
would enable you to turn the difficulty.”

Charles Baid, that somehow he did not like this mode
of arguing; it seemed dangerous; he did not see
whither it went, where it ended. Presently he said ab-
ruptly, “ Why do you think there are more difficulties
in the Church of Rome?” “ Clearly there are,” an-
swered Carlton; “ if the Articles are a crust, is not
Pope Pius’s Creed a bone?” “I don’t know Pope
Pius’s Creed,” said Charles; “ I know very little about
the state of the casq, certainly. What does it say ?”
“ Oh, it includes transubstantiation, purgatory, saint-
worship, and the rest,” said Carlton; “I suppose you182

LOSS AND GAIN.

could not quite subscribe these.” “It depends,” an-
swered Charles slowly, “ on this—on what authority
they came to me.” He stopped, and then went on: “ Of
course I could, if they came to me on the same authority
as the doctrine of the Blessed Trinity comes. Now, the
Articles come on no authority; they are the views of
persons in the 16th century; and again, it is not clear
how far they are, or are not, modified by the unauthori-
tative views of the 19th. I am obliged, then, to exercise
my own judgment; and I candidly declare to you, that
my judgment is unequal to so great a task. At least,
this is what troubles me, whenever the subject rises in my
mind; for I have put it from me.” “ Well, then,” said
Carlton, “ take them on faith.”	“ You mean, I sup-

pose,” said Charles, “that I must consider our Church
infallible.” Carlton felt the difficulty; he answered,
“ No, but you must act as if it were infallible, from a
sense of duty.” Charles smiled; then he looked grave; he
stood still, and his eyes fell. “ If I am to make a Church
infallible,” he said, “ if I must give up private judg-
ment, if I must act on faith, there is a Church which has
a greater claim on us all than the Church of England.”
“ My dear Beding,” said Carlton with some emotion,
“ where did you get these notions ?” “I don’t know,”
answered Charles; “ somebody has said that they were
in the air. I have talked to no one, except one or two
arguments I had with different persons in my first year.
I have driven the subject from me; but when I once
begin, you see it will out.”

They walked on awhile in silence. “ Do you really
mean to say,” asked Carlton at length, “that it is so
difficult to understand and receive the Articles ? To me
they are quite clear enough, and speak the language of
common sense.” “ Well, they seem to me,” said Beding,LOSS AND GAIN.

183

“sometimes inconsistent with themselves,- sometimes
with the Prayer-book; so that I am suspicious of them ;
I don’t know what I am signing when I sign, yet I ought
to sign ex animo. A blind submission I could make;
I cannot make a blind declaration.” “ Give me some
instances,” said Carlton. “Por example,” said Charles,
“ they distinctly receive the Lutheran doctrine of justi-
fication by faith only, which the Prayer-book virtually
opposes in every one of its offices. They refer to the
Homilies as authority, yet the Homilies speak of the
books of the Apocrypha as inspired, which the Articles
implicitly deny. The Articles about Ordination are in
their spirit contrary to the Ordination Service. One
Article on the Sacraments speaks the doctrine of Melanc-
thon, another that of Calvin. One Article speaks of the
Church’s authority in controversies of faith, yet another
makes Scripture the ultimate appeal. These are what
occur to me at the moment.” “ Surely many of these
are but verbal difficulties, at the very first glance,” said
Carlton, “ and all may be surmounted with a little care.”
“ On the other hand, it has struck me,” continued
Charles, “ that the Church of Home is undeniably con-
sistent in her formularies; this is the very charge some
of our writers make upon her, that she is so systematic.
It may be a hard, iron system, but it is consistent.”
Carlton did not wish to interrupt him, thinking it best
to hear his whole difficulty; so Charles proceeded:
‘‘ When a system is consistent, at least it does not con-
demn itself. Consistency is not truth, but truth is con-
sistency. Now, I am not a fit judge whether or not
a certain system is true, but' I may be quite a judge
whether it is consistent with itself. When an oracle
equivocates, it carries with it its own condemnation. I184

LOSS AND GAIN.

almost think there is something in Scripture on this sub-
ject, comparing in this respect the pagan and the in-
spired prophecies. And this has struck me too, that
St. Paul gives this very account of a heretic, that he is
‘ condemned of himself,’ bearing his own condemnation
on his face. Moreover, I was once in the company of
Preeborn (I don’t know if you are acquainted with him),
and others of the Evangelical party ; and they showed
plainly, if they were to be trusted, that Luther and
Melancthon did not agree together on the prime point
of justification by faith ; a circumstance which had not
come into the Article-lecture. Also I have read some-
where, or heard in some sermon,that the ancient heretics
always were inconsistent, never could state plainly their
meaning, much less agree together ; and thus, whether
they would or no, could not help giving to the simple a
warning of their true character, as if by their rattle.”
Charles stopped; presently he continued: “ This too
has struck me; that either there is no prophet of the
truth-on earth, or the Church of Eome is that prophet.
That there is a prophet still, or apostle, or messenger, or
teacher, or whatever he is to be called, seems evident
by our believing in a visible Church. Now common sense
tells us what a messenger from God must be ; first, he
must not contradict himself, as I have just been saying.
Again, a prophet of God can allow of no rival, but de-
nounces all who make a separate claim, as the prophets
do in Scripture. Now, it is impossible to say whether
our Church acknowledges or not Lutheranism in Ger-
many, Calvinism in Switzerland, the Nestorian and
Monophysite bodies in the East. Nor does it clearly
tell us what view it takes of the Church of Eome. The
only place where it recognises its existence is in theLOBS AND GAIN.

185

Homilies, and there it speaks of it as Antichrist. Nor
has the Greek Church any intelligible position in Angli-
can doctrine. On the other hand the Church of Rome has
this prima facie mark of a prophet, that like a prophet
in Scripture, it admits no rival, and anathematises all
doctrine counter to its own. There’s another thing. A
prophet of God is of course at home with his message;
he is not helpless and do-nothing in the midst of errors
and in the war of opinions. He knows what has been
given him to declare, how far it extends; he can act as an
umpire; he is equal to emergencies. This again tells
in favour of the Church of Rome. As age after age
comes, she is ever on the alert, questions every new
comer, sounds the note of alarm, hews down strange
doctrine, claims and locates and perfects what is new and
true. The Church of Rome inspires me with confidence;
I feel I can trust her. It is another thing whether she
is true; I am not pretending now to decide that. But
I do not feel the like trust in our own Church. I love
her more than I trust her. She leaves me without faith.
Now you see the state of my mind.” He fetched a deep
sharp sigh, as if he had got a load off him.

“Well,” Baid Carlton, when he had stopped, “ this is
all very pretty theory; whether it holds in matter of fact,
is another question. We have been accustomed hitherto
to think Chillingworth right, when he talks of Popes
against Popes, Councils against Councils, and so on.
Certainly you will not be allowed by Protestant contro-
versialists to assume this perfect consistency in Romish
doctrine. The truth is, you have read very little; and you
judge of truth, not by facts, but by notions; I mean, you
think it enough if a notion hangs together; though you
disavow it, still, in matter of fact, consistency is truth to186

LOSS AND GAIN.

you. Whether facts answer to theories, you cannot tell,
and you don’t inquire. Now I am not well read in the
subject, but I know enough to be sure that Romanists
will have more work to prove their consistency than you
anticipate. For instance, they appeal to the Fathers,
yet put the Pope above them; they maintain the infalli-
bility of the Church, and prove it by Scripture, and then
they prove Scripture by the Church. They think a
General Council infallible, when,but not before,the Pope
has ratified it; Bellarmine, I think, gives a list of Gene-
ral Councils which have erred. And I never have been
able to make out the Romish doctrine of Indulgences.”
Charles thought over this; then he said, “ Perhaps the
case is as you say, that I ought to know the matter of
fact more exactly before attempting to form a judgment
on the subjects; but, my dear Carlton, I protest to
you, and you may think with what distress I say it, that
if the Church of Rome is as ambiguous as our own
Church, I shall be in the way to become a sceptic, on
the very ground that I shall have no competent autho-
rity to tell me what to believe. The Ethiopian said,
£ How can I know, unless some man do teach me ? ’ and
St. Paul says, c Eaith cometh by hearing.’ If no one
claims my faith, how can I exercise it ? At least I
shall run the risk of becoming a Latitudinarian ; for if I
go by Scripture only, certainly there is no creed given
us in Scripture.” “ Our business,” said Carlton, “is
to make the best of thiugs, not the worst. Do keep this
in mind ; be on your guard against a strained and mor-
bid view of things. Be cheerful, be natural, and all will
be easy.” “ You are always kind and considerate,” said
Charles : “ but after all,—I wish I could make you see
it,—you have not a word to say by way of meeting myLOSS AND GAIN.

187

original difficulty of subscription. How am I to leap
over the wall ? It’s nothing to the purpose that other
communions have their walls also.”

They now neared home, and concluded their walk in
silence, each being fully occupied with the thoughts
which the conversation had suggested.

CHAPTEE IX.

The Vacation passed away silently and happily. Day
succeeded day in quiet routine employments, bringing
insensible but sure accessions to the stock of knowledge
and to the intellectual proficiency of both our students.
Historians and orators were read for a last time, and laid
aside ; sciences were digested; commentaries Avere run
through ; and analyses and abstracts completed. It was
emphatically a silent toil. "While others might be steam-
ing from London to Bombay or the Havannah, and
months in the retrospect might look like years, with
Eeding and Sheffield the week had scarcely begun when
it was found to be ending; and when October came,
and they saw ttieir Oxford friends again, at first they
thought they had a good deal to say to them, but when
they tried, they found it did but concern minute points
of their own reading and personal matters ; and they
were reduced to silence, with the wish to speak.

The season had changed, and reminded them that
Horsley was a place for summer sojourn, not a dwelling.
There were heavy raw fogs hanging about the hills, and
storms of wind and rain. The grass no longer afforded
them a seat; and when they betook themselves indoors,188

LOSS AND GAIN.

it was discovered that the doors and windows did not
shut close, and that the chimney smoked. Then came
those fruits, the funeral feast of the year, mulberries
and walnuts; the tasteless, juiceless walnut; the dark
mulberry, juicy but severe, and mouldy withal, as ga-
thered not from the tree, but from the damp earth. And
thus that green spot itself weaned them from the love of
it. Charles looked around him, and rose to depart as a
“ conviva satur.” “ Edisti satis, tempus abire,” seemed
written upon all. The swallows had taken leave; the
leaves were paling ; the light broke late, and failed soon.
The hopes of spring, the peace and calm of summer, had
given place to the sad realities of autumn. He was hur-
rying to the world, who had been up on the mount; he
had lived without jars, without distractions, without
disappointments ; and he was now to take them as his
portion. Tor he was but a child of Adam; Horsley
had been but a respite; and he had vividly brought
before his memory the sad reverse which came upon him
two years before—what a happy summer—what a for-
lorn autumn. With these thoughts, he put up his books
and papers, and turned his face towards St. Saviour’s.

Oxford too was not quite what it had been to him ;
the freshness of his admiration for it was over; he now
saw defects where at first all was excellent and good;
the romance of places and persons had passed away.
And there were changes too : of his contemporaries,
some had already taken their degrees and left; others
were reading in the country; others had gone off to
other Colleges on Fellowships. A host of younger
faces had sprung up in hall and chapel, and he hardly
knew their names. Rooms which formerly had been his
familiar lounge were now tenanted by strangers, whoLOSS AND GAIN.

189

claimed to have that right in them which, to his imagina-
tion, could only attach to those who had possessed them
when he himself came into residence. The College
seemed to have deteriorated; there was a rowing set,
which had not been there before, a number of boys, and
a large proportion of snobs.

But, what was a real trouble to Charles, it got clearer
and clearer to his apprehension, that his intimacy with
Sheffield was not quite what it had been. They had,
indeed, passed the Vacation together, and saw of each
other more than ever: but their sympathies in each
other were not as strong, they had not the same likings
and dislikings ; in short, they had not such congenial
minds as they fancied when they were freshmen. There
was not so much heart in their conversations, and they
more easily endured to miss each other’s company.
They were both reading for honours—reading hard;
but Sheffield’s whole heart was in his work, and religion
was but a secondary matter to him. He had no doubts,
difficulties, anxieties, sorrows, which much affected him.
It was not the certainty of faith which made a sunshine
to his soul, and dried up the mists of human weakness ;
rather, he had no perceptible need within him of that
vision of the Unseen which is the Christian’s life. He
was unblemished in his character, exemplary in his con-
duct ; but he was content with what the perishable world
gave him. Charles’s characteristic, perhaps above any
thing else, was an habitual sense of the Divine Pre-
sence ; a sense which, of course, did not insure uninter-
rupted conformity of thought and deed to itself, but still
there it was—the pillar of the cloud before him and
guiding him. He felt himself to be God’s creature, and
responsible to Him—God’s possession,not his own. He190

LOSS AOT) OAIN.

had a great wish to succeed in the schools; a thrill
came over him when he thought of it; but ambition was
not his life ; he could have reconciled himself in a few
minutes to failure. Thus disposed, the only subjects on
which the two friends freely talked together were con-
nected with their common studies. They read together,
examined each other, used and corrected each other’s
papers, and solved each other’s difficulties. Perhaps it
scarcely came home to Sheffield, sharp as he was, that
there was any flagging of their intimacy. Religious
controversy had been the food of his active intellect
when it was novel; now it had lost its interest, and his
books took its place. But it was far different with
Charles ; he had felt interest in religious questions for
their own sake; and when he had deprived himself of
the pursuit of them, it had been a self-denial. Now
then, when they seemed forced on him again, Sheffield
could not help him, where he most wanted the assistance
of a friend.

A still more tangible trial was coming on him. The
reader has to be told, that there was at that time a sys-
tem of espionage prosecuted by various well-meaning
men, who thought it would be doing the University a
service to point out such of its junior members as were
what is called papistically inclined. They did not per-
ceive the danger such a course involved of disposing
young men towards Catholicism, by giving them the
bad report of it, and of forcing them further, by inflict-
ing on them the inconsistencies of their position. Ideas
which would have lain dormant or dwindled away in
their minds, were thus fixed, defined, located within
them; and the fear of the world’s censure no longer
served to deter, when it had been actually incurred.LOSS AND GAIN.

191

When Charles attended the tea-party at Freeborn’s, he
was on his trial; he was introduced not only into a
school, but into an inquisition; and since he did not
promise to be a subject for spiritual impression, he was
forthwith a subject for spiritual censure. He became a
marked man in the circles of Capel Hall and St. Mark’s.
His acquaintance with Willis; the questions he had
asked at the Article-lecture; stray remarks at wine-
parties,—were treasured up, and strengthened the case
against him. One time, on coming into his rooms, he
found Freeborn, who had entered to pay him a call, pry-
ing into his books. A volume of sermons, of the school
of the day, borrowed of a friend for the sake of illustrat-
ing Aristotle, lay on his table; and in his book-shelves
one of the more philosophical of the “ Tracts for the
Times ” was stuck in between a Hermann De Metris and
a Thucydides. Another day his bed-room door was
open, and No. 2 of the tea-party saw one of Overbeck’s
sacred prints pinned up against the wall.

Facts like these were, in most cases, delated to the
Head of the house to which a young man belonged;
who, as a vigilant guardian of the purity of his under-
graduates’ Protestantism, received the information with
thankfulness, and perhaps asked the informer to dinner.
It cannot be denied that in some cases this course of
action succeeded in frightening and sobering the parties
towards whom it was directed. White was thus re-
claimed to be a devoted son and useful minister of tbe
Church of England; but it was a kill-or-cure remedy,
and not likely to answer with the more noble or the
more able minds. What effect it had upon Charles, or
whether any, must be determined by the sequel; here
it will suffice to relate interviews which took place be-192

LOSS AND GAIN.

tween him and the Principal and Tice-Principal of his
College in consequence of it.

CHAPTER X.

"When Reding presented himself to the Vice-Principal,
the Rev. Joshua Jennings, to ask for leave to reside in
lodgings for the two terms previous to his examination,
he was met with a courteous but decided refusal. It
took him altogether by surprise ; he had considered the
request as a mere matter of form. He sat half a minute
silent, and then rose to take his departure. The colour
came to his cheek; it was a repulse inflicted only on
idle men, who could not be trusted beyond the eye of the
Dean of the College.

The Vice-Principal seemed to expect him to ask the
reason of his proceeding; as Charles, in his confusion,
did not seem likely to do so, he condescended to open the
conversation. It was not meant as any reflection, he
said, on Mr. Reding’s moral conduct; "he had ever been
a well-conducted young man, and had quite borne out
the character with which he had come from school; but
there were duties to be observed towards the community,
and its under-graduate portion must be protected from
the contagion of principles which were too rife at the
moment. Charles was, if possible, still more surprised,
and suggested that there must be some misunderstand-
ing, if he had been represented to the Vice-Principal as
connected with any so-called party in the place. “ You
don’t mean to deny that there is a party, Mr. Reding,”
answered the College authority, “ by that form of ex-
pression ?” He was a lean pale person, with a largeLOSS AND GAIN.

193

hook-nose and spectacles; and seemed, though a liberal
in creed, to be really a nursling of t^hat early age, when
Anabaptists fed the fires of Smithfield. From his years,
practised talent, and position, he was well able to brow-
beat an unhappy juvenile who incurred his displeasure;
and, though he really was a kind-hearted man at bottom,
he not unfrequently used his power. Charles did not
know how to answer his question; and on his silence it
was repeated. At length he said that really he was not
in a condition to speak against any one; and if he spoke
of a so-called party, it was that he might not seem dis-
respectful to some who might be better men than him-
self. Mr. Vice was silent, but not from being satisfied.
“ "What would you call a party, Mr. Reding ? what would
be your definition of it ? ” Charles paused to think; at
last he said: “ Persons who band together on their own
authority for the maintenance of views of their own.”
“ And will you say that these gentlemen have not views
of their own ? ” asked Mr. Jennings. Charles assented.

“What is your view of the Thirty-nine Articles ?”
said the Vice-Principal abruptly. “ My view! ’’ thought
Charles; “ what can he mean ? my view of the Articles !
like my opinion of things in general. Does he mean my
‘ view,’ whether they are English or Latin, long or short,
good or bad, expedient or not, Catholic or not, Calvinist
or Erastian ? ’ ’ Meanwhile Jennings kept steadily regard-
ing him, and Charles got more and more confused. “ I
think,” he said, making a desperate snatch at authorita-
tive words, “ I think that the Articles ‘ contain a godly
and wholesome doctrine,and necessary for these times.’ ”
“ That is the Second Book of Homilies, Mr. Reding, not
the Articles. Besides, I want your own opinion on the
subject.” He proceeded, after a pause: “ What is jus-194

LOSS AND GAIN.

tification?” “Justification,”. . . said Charles, repeating
the word, and thinking; then, in the words of the Arti-
cle, he went on: “We are accounted righteous before
God, but only for the merit of our Lord Jesus Christ, by
faith, and not by our own works and deservings.”

“ Right,” said Jennings; “ but you have not answered
my question. What is justification ? ” This was very
hard, for it was one of Charles’s puzzles what justifica-
tion was in itself, for the Articles do not define it any
more than faith. He answered to this effect, that the
Articles did not define it. The Vice-Principal looked
dissatisfied.

“Can General Councils err?” “Yes,” answered
Charles. This was right. “ What do Romanists say
about them ? ”	“ They think they err too.” This was

all wrong. “ No,” said Jennings, “ they think them in-
fallible.” Charles was silent; Jennings tried to force his
decision upon him. At length Charles said that “ only
Borne General Councils were admitted as infallible by the
Romanists, and he believed that Bellarmine gave a list of
General Councils which had erred.” Another pause,
and a gathering cloud on Jennings’ brow.

He returned to his former subject. “ In what sense
do you understand the Articles, Mr. Reding ? ” he asked.
That was more than Charles could tell; he wished very
much to know the right sense of them; so he beat about
for the received answer. “ In the sense of Scripture,” he
said. This was true, but nugatory. “ Rather,” said
Jennings, “ you understand Scripture in the sense of
the Articles.” Charles assented for peace-sake. But
his concession availed not; the Vice-Principal pursued
his advantage: “ They must not interpret each other,
Mr. Reding, else you revolve in a circle. Let me repeatLOSS AND GAIN.

195

my question. In what sense do you interpret the Ar-
ticles?” “I wish to take them,” Reding answered,
“ in the general and received sense of our Church, as all
our divines and present Bishops take them.” The Vice-
Principal looked pleased. Charles could not help being
candid, and said in a lower tone, as if words of course,
“that is, on faith.”' This put all wrong again. Jen-
nings would not allow this; it was a blind, Popish re-
liance ; it was very well, when he first came to the Uni-
versity, before he had read the Articles, to take them on
trust; but a young man, who had had the advantages of
Mr. Reding, who had been three years at St. Saviour’s
College, and had attended the Article-lectures, ought to
hold the received view, not only as being received, but
as his own, with a free intellectual assent. He went on
to ask him by what texts he proved the Protestant doc-
trine of justification. Charles gave two or three of the
usual passages with such success, that the Vice-Principal
was secretly beginning to relent, when unhappily, on
asking a last question as a matter of course, he received
an answer which confirmed all his former surmises.

“ What is our Church’s doctrine concerning the inter-
cession of Saints ? ” Charles said that he did not recol-
lect that it had expressed any opinion on the subject.
Jennings bade him think again; Charles thought in
vain. “ Well, what is your opinion of it, Mr. Reding ? ”
Charles, believing it to be an open point, thought he
should be safe in imitating “ our Church’s ” moderation.
“ There are different opinions on the subject,” he said:
“ some persons think they intercede for us, others, that
they do not. It is easy to go into extremes; perhaps
better to avoid such questions altogether; better to go
by Scripture; the book of Revelation speaks of the in-196

LOSS AND GAIN.

tercession of Saints, but does not expressly say that they
intercede for us,” &c. &c. Jennings sat upright in his
easy chair, with indignation mounting into his forehead.
At length his face became like night. “ That is your
opinion, Mr. Beding.” Charles began to be frightened.
“ Please to take up that Prayer-book, and turn to the
22nd Article. Now, begin reading it.” “ The Bomish
doctrine,” said Charles,—“theBomish doctrine concern-
ing purgatory, pardons, worshipping and adoration as
well of images as of relics, and also invocation of
Saints—”	“ Stop there,” said the Vice-Principal;

“ read those words again.” “ And also invocation of
Saints.” “Now, Mr.Beding.” Charles was puzzled,
thought he had made some blunder, could not find it,
and was silent. “Well, Mr. Beding?” Charles at
length said that he thought Mr. Jennings had spoken
about intercession. “So I did,” he made answer.
“And this,” said Charles, timidly, “speaks of invoca-
tion” Jennings gave a little start in his arm-chair,
and slightly coloured. “ Eh ?” he said; “ give me the
book.” He slowly read the Article, and then cast a
cautious eye over the page before and after. There was
no help for it. He began again. “And so, Mr.
Beding, you actually mean to shelter yourself by that
subtle distinction between invocation and intercession;
as if Papists did not invoke in order to gain the Saints’
intercession, and as if the Saints were not supposed by
them to intercede in answer to invocation ? The terms
are correlative. Intercession of Saints, instead of being
an extreme only, as you consider, is a Bomish abomina-
tion. I am ashamed of you, Mr. Beding; I am pained
and hurt that a young man of your promise, of good
ability, and excellent morals, should be guilty of so grossLOSS AND GAIN.

197

an evasion of the authoritative documents of our Church,
such an outrage upon common sense, so indecent a viola-
tion of the terms on which alone he was allowed to place
his name on the books of this society. I could not have
a clearer proof that your mind has been perverted. I
fear I must use a stronger term, debauched, by the so-
phistries and jesuitries which unhappily have found en-
trance among us. Good morning, Mr. Reding.”

So it was a thing settled: Charles was to be sent
home,—an endurable banishment.

Before he went down, he paid a visit of form to the
old Principal—a worthy man in his generation, who be-
fore now had raised a congregation in a wild part of the
country, had instructed the ignorant and fed the poor;
but now in the end of his days, falling on evil times, was
permitted, for inscrutable purposes, to give evidence of
that evil puritanical leaven which was a secret element
of his religion. He had been kind to Charles hitherto,
which made his altered manner more distressing to him.
“We had hoped,” he said, “Mr. Reding, that so good
a young man as you once were, would have gained a
place on some foundation, and been settled here, and
been a useful man in his generation, sir; and a column,
a buttress of the Church of England, sir. Well, sir,
here are my best wishes for you, sir. When you come
up for your Master’s degree, sir—no, I think it is your
Bachelor’s—which is it, Mr. Reding, are you yet a Ba-
chelor ? oh, I see your gown.” Charles said he had not
yet been into the schools. “ Well, sir, when you come
up to be examined, I should say—to be examined—we
will hope that in the interval, reflection, and study, and
absence perhaps from dangerous companions, will have
brought you to a soberer state of mind, Mr. Reding.”198

LOSS AND GAIN.

Charles was shocked at the language used about him.
“Really, sir,” he said, “if you knew me better, you
would feel that I am likely neither to receive nor do harm
by remaining here between this and Easter.” “ What!
remain here, sir, with all the young men about ?” asked
Dr. Bluett, with astonishment, “ with all the young men
about you, sir ? ” Charles really had not a word to say;
he did not know himself in so novel a position. “I
cannot conceive, sir,” he said at last, “ why I should be
unfit company for the gentlemen of the College.” Dr.
Bluett’s jaw dropped, and his eyes assumed a hollow
aspect. “ You will corrupt their minds, sir,” he said,—
“ you will corrupt their minds.” Then he added in
a sepulchral tone, which came from the very depths of
his inside, “You will introduce them, sir, to some
subtle Jesuit—to some subtle Jesuit, Mr. Reding.”

CHAPTER XI.

Mbs. Reding was by this time settled in the neighbour-
hood of old friends in Devonshire; and there Charles
spent the winter and early spring with her and his
three sisters, the eldest of whom was two years older
than himself.

“ Come, shut your dull books, Charles,” said Caroline,
the youngest, a girl of fourteen; “make way for the tea;
I am sure you have read enough. You sometimes don’t
speak a word for an hour together; at least, you might
tell us what you are reading about.” “ My dear Cary,
you would not be much the wiser if I did,” answered
Charles; “ it is Greek history.” “ Oh,” said Caroline,
“ I know more than you think; I have read Goldsmith,LOSS AND GAIN.

199

and good part of JJollin, besides Pope’s Homer.” “ Ca-
pital !” said Charles; “well, I am reading about Pelopi-
das, who was he ? ”	“ Pelopidas! ” answered Caroline,

“ I ought to know. Oh, I recollect, he had an ivory
shoulder.” “Well said, Cary; but I have not yet a
distinct idea of him either. Was he a statue, or flesh
and blood, with this shoulder of his?” “ Oh, he was
alive; somebody ate him, I think.” “Well, was he a
god or a man ?” said Charles. “ Oh, it’s a mistake of
mine,” said Caroline; “he was a goddess, the ivory-
footed—no, that was Thetis.” “ My dear Caroline,”
said her mother, “ do not talk so at random; think be-
fore you speak; you know better than this.” “ She has,
ma’am,” said Charles, “ what Mr. Jennings would call ‘a
very inaccurate mind.’ ” “I recollect perfectly now,”
said Caroline, “he was a friend of Epaminondas.”
“When did he live?” asked Charles. Caroline was
silent. “ Oh, Cary,” said Eliza, “ don’t you recollect
the memoria technica f ” “I never could learn it,” said
Caroline; “I hate it.” “Nor can I,” said Mary;
“ give me good native numbers; they are sweet and
kindly, like flowers in a bed; but I don’t like your arti-
ficial flower-pots.” “ But surely,” said Charles, “ a
memoria technica makes you recollect a great many dates
which you otherwise could not ? ” “ The crabbed names
are more difficult even to pronounce than the numbers
to learn,” said Caroline. “ That’s because you have very
few dates to get up,” said Charles; “ but common
writing is a memoria technica.”	“ That’s beyond Caro-

line,” said Mary. “ What are words but artificial signs
for ideas ?” said Charles; “ they are more musical, but
as arbitrary. There is no more reason why the sound
‘hat’ should mean the particular thing so called, which200

LOSS AND GAIN.

we put on our heads, than why ‘ abul-distof ’ should
stand for 1520.” “ 0 my dear child,” said Mrs. Eeding,
“ how you run on! Don’t be paradoxical.” “ My dear
mother,” said Charles, coming round to the fire, “I
don’t wish to be paradoxical; it’s only a generalisation.”
“ Keep it, then, for the schools, my dear; I dare say it
will do you good there,” continued Mrs. Eeding, while
she continued her hemming; “ poor Caroline will be as
much put to it in logic as in history.”

“I am in a dilemma,” said Charles, as he seated
himself on a little stool at his mother’s feet; “for
Cary calls me stupid if I am silent, and you call
me paradoxical if I speak.” “ Good sense,” said
his mother, “is the golden mean.” “And what is
common sense?” said Charles. “The silver mean,”
said Eliza. “Well done,” said Charles; “it is small
change for every hour.” “ Eather,” said Caroline, “ it
is the copper mean, for we want it, like alms for
the poor, to give away. People are always asking
me for it. If I can’t tell who Isaac’s father was,
Mary says, ‘0 Cary, where’s your common sense?’
If I am going out of doors, Eliza runs up, ‘ Cary,’
she cries, ‘ you haven’t common sense; your shawl’s
all pinned awry.’ And when I ask mamma the shortest
way across the fields to Dalton, she says, ‘ Use your
common sense, my dear.’” “No wonder you have
so little of it, poor dear child,” said Charles; “no
bank could stand such a run.” “No such thing,”
said Mary; “ it flows into her bank ten times as fast
as it comes out. She has plenty of it from us; and
what she does with it, no one can make out; she
either hoards or she speculates.” “Like the great
ocean,” said Charles, “ which receives the rivers, yet isLOSS AND GAIN.

201

not full.” “ That’s somewhere in Scripture,” said Eliza.
“ In the Preacher,” said Charles, and he continued the
quotation ; “ ‘ All things are full of labour, man cannot
utter it; the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear
filled with hearing.’ ”

His mother sighed ; “ Take my cup, my love,” she
said ; “ no more.” “ I know why Charles is so fond
of the Preacher,” said Mary; “ it’s because he’s tired of
reading ; * much study is a wearinfess to the flesh :’ I
wish we could help you, dear Charles.” “ My dear boy,
I really think you read too much,” said his mother;
“only think how many hours you have been at it to-day.
You are always up one or two hours before the sun ;
and I don’t think you have had your walk to-day.”
“ It’s so dismal walking alone, my dear mother; and as
to walking with you and my sisters, it’s pleasant enough,
but no exercise.” “But, Charlie,” said Mary, “ that’s
absurd of you; these nice sunny days, which you
could not expect at this season, are just the time for
long walks. Why don’t you resolve to make straight
for the plantations, or to mount Hart Hill, or go right
through Dun Wood and back ? ”	“ Because all woods

are dun and dingy just now, Mary, and not green. It’s
quite melancholy to see them.” “ Just the finest time
of the year,” said his mother; “ it’s universally allowed;
all painters say that the autumn is the season to see a
landscape in.” “All gold and russet,” said Mary.
“It makes me melancholy,” said Charles. “ What! the
beautiful autumn make you melancholy ? ” asked his
mother. “ Oh, my dear mother, you mean to say that
I am paradoxical again; I cannot help it. I like
spring ; but autumn saddens me.” “ Charles always
says so,” said Mary; “he thinks nothing of the rich202

LOBS AND GAIN.

hues into which the sober green changes; he likes the
dull uniform of summer.” “ No, it is not that,” said
Charles; “ I never saw any thing so gorgeous as Mag-
dalen Water-walk, for instance, in October; it is quite
wonderful, the variety of colours. I admire, and am
astonished; but I cannot love or like it. It is because I
can’t separate the look of things from what it portends;
that rich variety is but the token of disease and death.”
“ Surely,” said Mary, “ colours have their own intrinsic
beauty; we may like them for their own sake.” “ No,
no,” said Charles, “we always go by association; else
why not admire raw beef, or a toad, or some other rep-
tiles, which are as beautiful and bright as tulips or cher-
ries, yet revolting, because we consider what they are,
not how they look ? ” “ What next ? ” said his mother,
looking up from her work; “ my dear Charles, you are
not serious in comparing cherries to raw beef or to
toads.” “ No, my dear mother,” answered Charles,
laughing, “ no, I only say that they look like them, not
are like them.” “A toad look like a cherry, Charles !”
persisted Mrs. Reding. “ Oh, my dear mother,” he an-
swered, “ I can’t explain ; I really have said nothing
out of the way. Mary does not think I have.” “ But,”
said Mary, “ why not associate pleasant thoughts with
autumn ? ” “ It is impossible,” said Charles; “ it is the
sick season and the deathbed of Nature. I cannot
look with pleasure on the decay of the mother of all
living. The many hues upon the landscape are but the
spots of dissolution.” “ This is a strained, unnatural
view, Charles,” said Mary ; “ shake yourself, and you
will come to a better mind. Don’t you like to see a
rich sunset ? yet the sun is leaving you.” Charles was
for a moment posed; then he said, “ Tes, but there wasLOSS AND GAIN.

203

no autumn in Eden; suns rose and set in Paradise, but
the leaves were always green, and did not wither. There
was a river to feed them. Autumn is the ‘ fall.’ ”

“ So, my dearest Charles,” said Mrs. Beding, “you
don’t go out walking these fine days because there was
no autumn in the garden of Eden ? ”	“ Oh,” said

Charles, laughing, “ it is cruel to bring me so to book.
What I meant was, that my reading was a direct obsta-
cle to walking, and that the fine weather did not tempt
me to remove it.” “I am glad we have you here, my
dear,” said his mother, “ for we can force you out now
and then ; at College I suspect you never walk at all.”
“It’s only for a time, ma’am,” said Charles; “when
my examination is over, I will take as long walks as I
did with Edward Grandy that winter after I left school.”
“ Ah, how merry you were then, Charles!” said Mary;
“ so happy with the thoughts of Oxford before you! ”
“ Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Beding, “you’ll then walk
too much, as you now walk too little. My good boy, you
are so earnest about every thing.” “ It’s a shame to
find fault with him for being diligent,” said Mary: “ you
like him to read for honours, I know, mamma; but if he is
to get them, he must read a great deal.” “True, my
love,” answered Mrs. Beding; “ Charles is a dear good
fellow, I know. How glad we all shall be to have
him ordained, and settled in a curacy! ” Charles sighed.
“ Come, Mary,” he said, “ give us some music, now the
urn has gone away. Play me that beautiful air of Beet-
hoven, the one I call ‘ The voice of the dead.’ ”	“ Oh,

Charles,you do give such melancholy names to things!”
cried Mary. “ The other day,” said Eliza, “ we had a
most beautiful scent Wafted across the road as we were
walking, and he called it ‘ The ghost of the past;’ and204

LOSS AND GAIN.

he says that the sound of the Eolian harp is ‘remorse-
ful.’ ” “Now, you’d think all that very pretty,” said
Charles, “ if you saw it in a book of poems ; but you
call it melancholy when I say it.” “ Oh, yes,” said
Caroline, “ because poets never mean what they say, and
would not be poetical unless they were melancholy.”
“Well,” said Mary, “I play to you, Charles, on this
one condition, that you let me give you some morning
a serious lecture on that melancholy of yours, which, I
assure you, is growing on you.”

CHAPTER XII.

Chables’s perplexities rapidly took a definite form on
his coming into Devonshire. The very fact of his being
at home, and not at Oxford where he ought to have been,
brought them before his mind; and the near prospect
of his examination and degree justified the consideration
of them. No addition indeed was made to their sub-
stance, as already described; but they were no longer
vague and indistinct, but thoroughly apprehended by
him; nor did he make up his mind that they were insur-
mountable, but he saw clearly what it was that had to
be surmounted. The particular form of argument into
which they happened to fall, was determined by the cir-
cumstances in which he found himself at the time, and
was this, viz.: how he could subscribe the Articles ex
animo, without faith, more or less, in his Church as the
imponent; and next, how he could have faith in her,
her history and present condition being what they were.
The fact of these difficulties was a great source ofLOSS AND GAIN.

205

distress to Charles. It was aggravated by the circum-
stance that he had no one to talk to, or to sympathise
with him under them. And it was completed by the
necessity of carrying about with him a secret which he
dared not tell to others, yet which he foreboded must
be told one day. All this was the secret of that de-
pression of spirits which his sisters had observed in him.

He was one day sitting thoughtfully over the fire with
a book in his hand, when Mary entered. “ I wish you
would teach me the art of reading Greek in live coals,”
she said. “ Sermons in stones, and good in every thing,”
answered Charles. “ You do well to liken yourself to
the melancholy Jacques,” she replied. “ Not so,” said
he, “ but to the good Duke Charles, who was banished
to the green forest.” “ A great grievance,” answered
Mary, “ we being the wild things with whom you are
forced to live. My dear Charles,” she continued, “ I
hope the tittle-tattle that drove you here, does not still
dwell on your mind.” “Why, it is not very pleasant,
Mary,after havingbeen on the best terms with the whole
College, and in particular with the Principal and Jen-
nings, at last to be sent down, as a rowing-man might
be rusticated for tandem-driving. You have no notion
how strong the old Principal was, and Jennings too.”
“Well, my dearest Charles, you must not brood over
it,” said Mary, “as I fear you are doing.” “ I don’t
see where it is to end,” said Charles; “ the Principal
expressly said that my prospects at the University were
knocked up. I suppose they would not give me a
testimonial, if I wished to stand for a fellowship any
where.” “ Oh, it is a temporary mistake,” said Mary;
“ I dare say by this time they know better. And it’s
one great gain to have you with us; we, at least, ought206

LOSS AND GAIN.

to be obliged to them.” “ I have been so very careful,
Mary,” said Charles; “ I have never been to the even-
ing-parties, or to the sermons which are talked about
in the University. It’s quite amazing to me what can
have put it into their heads. At the Article-lecture I
now and then asked a question, but it was really because
I wished to understand and get up the different subjects.
Jennings fell on me the moment I entered his room. I
can call it nothing else; very civil at first in his manner,
but there was something in his eye before he spoke, which
told me at once what was coming. It’s odd a man of
such self-command as he, should not better hide his feel-
ings ; but I have always been able to see what Jennings
was thinking about.” “ Depend on it,” said his sister,
“ you will think nothing of it whatever this time next
year. It will be like a summer-cloud, come and gone.”
“ And then it damps me, and interrupts me in my read-
ing. I fall back thinking of it, and cannot give my
mind to my books, or exert myself. It is very hard.”
Mary sighed; “ I wish I could help you,” she said;
“ but women can do so little. Come, let me take the
fretting, and you the reading; that’ll be a fair division.”
“ And then my dear mother too,” he continued; “ what
she will think of it when it comes to her ears; and
come it must.” “ Nonsense,” said Mary, “ don’t make
a mountain of a mole-hill. You will go back, take your
degree, and nobody will be the wiser.” “ No, it can’t
be so,” said Charles seriously. “ What do you mean ?”
asked Mary. “ These things don’t clear off in that way,”
said he; “ it is no summer-cloud; it may turn to rain,
for what they know.”

Mary looked at him with some surprise. “I mean,” he
said, “that I have no confidence that they will let me takeLOSS AND GAIN.

207

my degree, any more than let me reside there.” “ That
is very absurd,” said she; “ it’s what I meant by brood-
ing over things, and making mountains of mole-hills.”
“My sweet Mary,” he said, affectionately taking her
hand, “ my only real confidant and comfort, I would tell
you something more, if you could hear it.” Mary was
frightened, and her heart beat. “ Charles,” she said,
withdrawing her hand, “ any pain is less than to see you
thus. I see too clearly that something is on your mind.”
Charles put his feet on the fender, and looked down. “ I
can’t tell you,” he said at length, with vehemence; then
seeing by her face how much he was distressing her, he
said, half laughing, as if to turn the edge of his words,
“ My dear Mary, when people bear witness against one,
one can’t help fearing that there is, perhaps, something
to hear witness against.” “Impossible, Charles! you
corrupt other people! you falsify the Prayer-book and
Articles! impossible! ”	“ Mary, which do you think

would be the best judge whether my face was dirty and
my coat shabby, you or I? Well, then, perhaps Jen-
nings, or at least common report, knows more about me
than I do myself.” “ You must not speak in this way,”
said Mary, much hurt; “ you really do pain me now.
What can you mean ? ’ ’ Charles covered his face with his
hands, and at length said: “ It’s no good; you can’t
assist me here; I only pain you. I ought not to have
begun the subject.” There was a silence.

“ My dearest Charles,” said Mary tenderly, “ come, I
willbear any thing,and not be annoyed. Any thing better
than to see you go on in this way. But really you frighten
me.” “Why,” he answered, “when a number of
people tell me that Oxford is not my place, not my po-
sition, perhaps they are right; perhaps it isn’t.” “But208

LOSS AND GAIN.

is that really all ?” she said; “ who wants you to lead an
Oxford life ? not we.” “ No, hut Oxford implies taking
a degree—taking orders.” “ Now, my dear Charles,
speak out; don’t drop hints; let me knowand she sat
down with a look of great anxiety. “ Well,” he said,
making an effort; “ yet I don’t know where to begin ;
but many things have happened to me, in various ways,
to show me that I have not a place, a position, a home,
that I am not made for, that I am a stranger in, the
Church of England.” There was a dreadful pause;
Mary turned very pale; then, darting at a conclusion
with precipitancy, she said quickly : “ You mean to say,
you are going to join the Church of Rome, Charles.”
“No,” he said, “ it is not so. I mean no such thing;
I mean just what I say ; I have told you the whole; I
have kept nothing back. It is this, and no more—that I
feel out of place.” “ Well then,” she said, “you must
tell me more; for, to my apprehension, you mean just
what I have said, nothing short of it.” “ I can’t go
through things in order,” he said ; “ but wherever I go,
whomever I talk with, I feel to be another sort of person
from what I am. I can’t convey it to you; you won’t
understand me; but the words of the Psalm, ‘I am a
stranger upon earth,’ describe what I always feel. No
one thinks or feels like me. I hear sermons, I talk on
religious subjects with friends, and every one seems to
bear witness against me. And now the College bears
its witness, and sends me down.” “ Oh, Charles,” said
Mary, “ how changed you are! ” and tears came into her
eyes; “ you used to be so cheerful, so happy. You
took such pleasure in every one, in every thing. We
used to laugh and say, ‘ All Charlie’s geese are swans.’
What has come over you ? ” She paused, and then con-LOSS AND GAIN.

209

tinued: “ Don’t you recollect those lines in the Chris-
tian Year ? I can’t repeat them; we used to apply
them to you; something about hope or love ‘ making all
things bright with her own magic smile.’ ” Charles was
touched when he was reminded of what he had been
three years before; he said: “ I suppose it is coming out
of shadows into realities.” “ There has been much to
sadden you,” she added, sighing; “ and now these nasty
books are too much for you. Why should you go up for
honours ? what’s the good of it ? ” There was a pause
again.

“ I wish I could bring home to you,” said Charles,
“ the number of intimations, as it were, which have been
given me of my uncongeniality, as it may be called, with
things as they are. What perhaps most affected me,
was a talk I had with Carlton, whom I have lately been
reading with ; for, if I could not agree with him, or
rather, if he bore witness against me, who could be ex-
pected to say a word for me P I cannot bear the pomp
and pretence which I see every where. I am not speak-
ing against individuals ; they are very good persons, I
know; but, really, if you saw Oxford as it is ! The
Heads with such large incomes; they are indeed very
liberal of their money, and their wives are often simple,
self-denying persons, as every one says, and do a great
deal of good in the place; but I speak of the system.
Here are ministers of Christ with large incomes, living
in finely furnished houses, with wives and families, and
stately butlers and servants in livery, giving dinners all
in the best style, condescending and gracious, waving
their hands and mincing their words, as if they were the
cream of the earth, but without any thing to make them
clergymen but a black coat and a white tie. And then210

LOSS AND GAIN.

Bishops or Deans come, with women tucked under their
arm ; and they can’t enter church but a fine powdered
man runs first with a cushion for them to sit on, and a
warm sheepskin to keep their feet from the stones.”
Mary laughed : “ Well, my dear Charles,” Bhe said, “ I
did not think you had seen so much of Bishops, Deans,
Professors, and Heads of houses at St. Saviour’s; you
have kept good company.” “ I have my eyes about
me,” said Charles, “ and have .had quite opportunities
enough; I can’t go into particulars.” “ Well, you have
been hard on them, I think,” said Mary; “ when a poor
old man has the rheumatism,” and she sighed a little,
“ it is hard he mayn’t have his feet kept from the cold.”
“ Ah, Mary, I can’t bring it home to you! but you must,
please, throw yourself into what I say, and not criticise
my instances or my terms. What I mean is, that there
is a worldly air about every thing, as unlike as possible
the spirit of the Gospels. I don’t impute to the dons
ambition or avarice; but still, what Heads of houses,
Bellows, and all of them evidently put before them as an
end is, to enjoy the world in the first place, and to serve
God in the second. Not that they don’t make it their
final object to get to heaven; but their immediate ob-
ject is to be comfortable, to marry, to have a fair income,
station, and respectability, a convenient house, a pleasant
country, a sociable neighbourhood. There is nothing high
about them. I declare I think the Puseyites are the
only persons who have high views in the whole place ■
I should say, the only persons who profess them, for I
don’t know them to speak about them.” He thought of
White. “Well, you are talking of things I don’t
know about,” Baid Mary; “ but I can’t think all the young
clever men of the place are looking out for ease andLOSS AND GAIN.

211

comfort; nor can I believe that in the Church of Eome
money has always been put to the best of purposes.”
“I said nothing about the Church of Eome,” said
Charles; “ why do you bring in the Church of Eome ?
that’s another thing altogether. What I mean is, that
there is a worldly smell about Oxford which I can’t
abide. I am not using ‘ worldly ’ in its worst sense.
People are religious and charitable ; but—I don’t like
to mention names—but I know various dons, and the
notion of evangelical poverty, the danger of riches, the
giving up all for Christ, all those ideas which are first
principles in Scripture, as I read it, don’t seem to enter
into their idea of religion. I declare, I think that is the
reason why the Puseyites are so unpopular.” “ Well, I
can’t see,” said Mary, “ why you must be disgusted with
the world, and with your place and duties in it, because
there are worldly people in it.”

“ But I was speaking of Carlton,” said Charles ; “ do
you know, good fellow as he is,—and I love, admire, and
respect him exceedingly,—he actually laid it down al-
most as an axiom, that a clergyman of the English
Church ought to marry. He said that celibacy might
be very well in other communions, but that a man made
himself a fool, and was out of joint with the age, who
remained single in the Church of England.” Poor
Charles was so serious, and the proposition which he re-
lated was so monstrous, that Mary, in spite of her real
distress, could not help laughing out. “ I really cannot
help it,” she said; “well, it really was a most extraor-
dinary statement, I confess. But, my dear Charlie, you
are not afraid that he will carry you off against your will,
and marry you to some fair lady before you know where
you are.” “ Don’t talk in that way, Mary,” said Charles;212

LOSS AND GAIN.

“ I can’t bear a joke just now. I mean, Carlton is so
sensible a man, and takes so just a view of things, that
the conviction flashed on my mind, that the Church of
England really was what he implied it to be—a form of
religion very unlike that of the Apostles.”

This sobered Mary indeed. “Alas,” she said, “we
have got upon very different ground now; not what our
Church thinks of you, but what you think of our Church.”
There was a pause. “ I thought this was at the bottom,”
she said ; “ I never could believe that a parcel of people,
some of whom you cared nothing for, telling you that
you were not in your place, would make you think so,
unless you first felt it yourself. That’s the real truth;
and then you interpret what others say in your own way.”
Another uncomfortable pause. Then she continued: “ I
see how it will be. When you take up a thing, Charles,
I know well you don’t lay it down. No, you have made
up your mind already. We shall see you a Eoman Ca-
tholic.” “ Do you then bear witness against me, Mary,
as well as the rest ? ” said he sorrowfully. She saw her
mistake. “No,” she answered; “all I say is, that it
rests with yourself, not with others. If you have made
up your mind, there’s no help for it. It is not others
who drive you, who bear witness against you. Dear
Charles, don’t mistake me, and don’t deceive yourself.
You have a strong will.”

At this moment Caroline entered the room. “ I
could not think where you were, Mary,” she said;
“ here Perkins has been crying after you ever so long.
It’s something about dinner; I don’t know what. We
have hunted high and low, and never guessed you were
helping Charles at his books.” Mary gave a deep sigh,
and left the room.LOSS AND GAIN.

213

CHAPTER XIII.

Neither to brother nor to sister had the conversation
been a satisfaction or relief. “ I can go no where for
sympathy,” thought Charles; “ dear Mary does not un-
derstand me more than others. I can’t bring out what
I mean and feel; and when I attempt to do so, my state-
ments and arguments seem absurd to myself. It has
been a great effort to tell her; and in one sense it is a
gain, for it is a trial over. Else I have taken nothing
by my move, and might as well have held my tongue.
I have simply pained her without relieving myself. By
the bye, she has gone off believing about twice as much
as the fact. I was going to set her right, when Cary
came in. My only difficulty is about taking orders ; and
she thinks I am going to be a Roman Catholic. How
absurd! but women will run on so ; give an inch, and
they take an ell. I know nothing of the Roman Catho-
lics. The simple question is, whether I should go to the
Bar or the Church. I declare I think I have made
vastly too much of it myself. I ought to have begun
this way with her:—I ought to vhave said,1 D’you
know, I have serious thoughts of reading law P ’ I’ve
made a hash of it.”

Poor Mary, on the other hand, was in a confusion of
thought and feeling as painful as it was new to her;
though for a time household matters and necessary duties
towards her younger sisters occupied her mind in a diffe-
rent direction. She had been indeed taken at her word ;
little had she expected what would come on her, when
she engaged to “ take the fretting, while he took the
reading.” She had known what grief was, not so long
ago; but not till now had she known anxiety. Charles’s214

LOSS AND GAIN.

state of mind was a matter of simple astonishment to
her. At first it quite frightened and shocked her ; it was
as if Charles had lost his identity, and had turned out
some one else. It was like a great breach of trust. She
had seen there was a good deal in the newspapers about
the “ Oxford party ” and their doings; and at different
places, where she had been on visits, she had heard of
churches being done up in the new fashion, and clergy-
men being accused, in consequence, of Popery—a charge
which she had laughed at. But now it was actually
brought home to her door that-there was something in it.
Yet it was to her incomprehensible, and she hardly knew
where she was. And that, of all persons in the world,
her brother, her own Charles, with whom she had been
one heart and soul all their lives— one so cheerful, so
religious, so good, so sensible, so cautious, that he should
be the first specimen that crossed her path of the new
opinions,—it bewildered her.

And where had he got his notions ?—Notions! she
could not call them notions ; he had nothing to say
for himself. It was an infatuation ; he, so clever, so
sharp-sighted, could say nothing better in defence of him-
self than that Mrs. Bishop of Monmouth was too pretty,
and that old Dr. Stock sat upon a cushion. Oh, sad, sad
indeed! How was it he could be so insensible to the
blessings he gained from his Church, and had enjoyed all
his life! What could he need ? She had no need at
all: going to church was a pleasure to her. She liked
to hear the Lessons and the Collects, coming round year
after year, and marking the seasons. The historical
books and prophets in summer ; then the “ stir-up ”
collect just before Advent; the beautiful collects in Ad-
vent itself, with the Lessons from Isaiah reaching onLOSS AND GAIN.

215

through Epiphany ; they were quite music to her ear.
Then the Psalms, varying with every Sunday; they were
a perpetual solace to her, ever old yet ever new. The
occasional additions too, the Athanasian Creed, the
Benedictus, Deus misereatur, and Omnia opera, which
her father had been used to read at certain great feasts ;
and the beautiful Litany. What could he want more ?
where could he find so much ? Well, it was a mystery
to her; and she could only feel thankful that she was
not exposed to the temptations, whatever they were,
which had acted on the powerful mind of her brother.

' Then, she had anticipated how pleasant it would be
when Charles was a clergyman, and she should hear him
preach; when there would be one whom she would
have a right to ask questions and to consult, whenever
she wished. This prospect was at an end; she could
no longer trust him; he had given a shake to her con-
fidence which it never could recover; it was gone for
ever. They were all of them women but he; he was
their only stay, now that her father had been taken
away. What was1 now to become of them ? To be
abandoned by her own brother! oh, how terrible !

And how was she to break it to her mother ? for
broken it must be sooner or later. She could not de-
ceive herself; she knew her brother well enough to feel
sure that, when he had really got hold of a thing, he
would not let it go again without convincing reasons;
and what reasons there could be for letting it go, she
could not conceive, if there could be reasons for taking
it up. The taking it up baffled all reason, all calcula-
tion. Well, but how was her mother to be told of it ?
Was it better to let her suspect it first, and so break
it to her, or to wait till the event happened ? The216

LOSS AND GAIN.

problem was too difficult for the present, and sbe must
leave it.

This was her state for several days, till her fever of
mind gradually subsided into a state of which a dull
anxiety was a latent but habitual element, leaving her
as usual at ordinary times, but every now and then be-
traying itself by sudden sharp sighs or wanderings of
thought. Neither brother nor sister, loving each other
really as much as ever, had quite the same sweetness and
evenness of temper as was natural to them ; self-con-
trol became a duty, and the evening circle was duller
than before, without any one being able to say why.
Charles was more attentive to his mother ; he no more
brought his books into the drawing-room, but gave him-
self to her company. He read to them, but he had little
to talk about; and Eliza and Caroline both wished his
stupid examination past and over, that he might be
restored to his natural liveliness.

As to Mrs. Reding, she did not observe more than
that her son was a very hard student, and grudged him-
self a walk or ride, let the day be ever so fine. She
was a mild quiet person, of keen feelings and precise
habits ; not very quick at observation ; and having lived
all her life in the country, and till her late loss having
scarcely known what trouble was, she was singularly
unable to comprehend how things could go on in any
way but one. Charles had not told her the real cause
of his spending the winter at home, thinking it would be
a needless vexation to her; much less did he contem-
plate harassing her with the recital of his own religious
difficulties, which were not appreciable by her, and issued
in no definite result. To his sister he did attempt an
explanation of his former conversation, with a view ofLOSS AND GAIN.

217

softening the extreme misgivings which it had created
in her mind. She received it thankfully, and professed
to be relieved by it; but the blow was struck, the sus-
picion was lodged deep in her mind,—he was still
Charles, dear to her as ever, but she never could rid her-
self of the anticipation which on that occasion she had
expressed.

CHAPTER XIV.

One morning he was told that a gentleman had asked
for him,and been shown into the dining-room. Descend-
ing, he saw the tall slender figure of Bateman, now a
clergyman, and lately appointed curate of a neighbouring
parish. Charles had not seen him for a year and a half,
and shook hands with him very warmly, complimenting
him on his white neckcloth, which somehow, he said,
altered him more than he could have expected. Bate-
man’s manner certainly was altered; it might be the
accident of the day, but he did not seem quite at his
ease ; it might be that he was in a strange house, and
was likely soon to be precipitated into the company of
ladies, to which he had never been used. If so, the
trial was on the point of beginning ; for Charles said
instantly that he must come and see his mother, and of
course meant to dine with them;—the sky was clear,
and there was an excellent footpath between Bough ton
and Melford. Bateman could not do this, but he would
have the greatest pleasure in being introduced to Mrs.
Reding; so he stumbled after Charles into the drawing-
room, and was soon conversing with her and the young
ladies.

“ A charming prospect you have here, ma’am,” said218

LOSS AND GAIN.

Bateman, “when you are once inside^the house. It
does not promise outside so extensive a view.” “No, it
is shut in with trees,” said Mrs. Reding ; “ and the
brow of the hill changes its direction so much that at
first I used to think the prospect ought to be from the
opposite windows.” “ What is that high hill ? ” said
Bateman. “It is Hart Hill,” said Charles : “there’s
a Roman camp atop of it.” “ We can see eight steeples
from our windows,” said Mrs. Reding;—“ring the bell
for luncheon, my dear.” “ Ah, our ancestors, Mrs.
Reding,” said Bateman, “ thought more of building
churches than we do ; or rather than we have done, I
should say, for now it is astonishing what efforts are
made to add to our ecclesiastical structures.” “ Our an-
cestors did a good ^eal too,” said Mrs. Reding; “ how
many churches, my dear, were built inLondon in Queen
Anne’s time? St. Martin’s was one of them.” “Fifty,”
said Eliza. “ Fifty were intended,” said Charles.
“ Yes,Mrs. Reding,” saidBateman; “ but by ancestors I
meant the holy Bishops and other members of our Catholic
Church previously to the Reformation. For, though the
Reformation was a great blessing” (a glance at Charles),
“ yet we must not, in justice, forget what was done by
English Churchmen before it.” “ Ah, poor creatures,”
said Mrs. Reding, “ they did one good thing in building
churches; it has saved us much trouble.” “Is there
much church-restoration going on in these parts ? ” said
Bateman, taken rather aback. “ My mother has but
lately come here, like yourself,” said Charles; “yes,
there is some; Barton Church, you know,” appealing to
Mary. “ Have your walks extended so far as Barton ? ”
said Mary to Bateman. “ Not yet, Miss Reding, not
yet,” answered he; “ of course they are destroying theLOSS AND GAIN.

219

pews.” “ They are to put in seats,” said Charles, “ and
of a very good pattern.” “ Pews are intolerable,” said
Bateman; “ yet the last generation of incumbents con-
tentedly bore them; it is wonderful.”

A not unnatural silence followed this speech. Charles
broke it by asking if Bateman intended to do any thing
in the improvement-line at Melford. Bateman looked
modest. “ Nothing of any consequence,” he said;
“ some few things were done; but he had a rector of
the old school, poor man, who was an enemy to that
sort of thing.” It was with some malicious feeling, in
consequence of his attack on clergymen of the past age,
that Charles pressed his visitor to give an account of his
own reforms. “ "Why,” said Bateman, “ much discretion
is necessary in these matters, or you do as much harm
as good ; you get into hot water with churchwardens and
vestries, as well as with old rectors, and again with the
gentry of the place, and please no one. For this reason
I have made no attempt to introduce the surplice into
the pulpit except on the great festivals, intending to
familiarise my parishioners to it by little and little.
However, I wear a scarf or stole, and have taken care
that it should be two inches broader than usual; and I
always wear the cassock in my parish. I hope you ap-
prove of the cassock, Mrs. Beding ? ” “ It is a very cold
dress, sir—that’s my opinion—when made of silk or
bombazeen; and very unbecoming too, when worn by
itself.” “ Particularly behind,” said Charles; “ it is
quite unshapely.” “ Oh, I have remedied that,” said
Bateman; “ you have noticed, Miss Reding, I dare say,
the Bishop’s short cassock. It comes to the knees, and
looks much like a continuation of a waistcoat, the
straight-cut coat being worn as usual. Well, Miss220

LOSS AND GAIN.

Reding, I have adopted the same plan with the long
cassock; I put my coat over it.” Mary had difficulty
to keep from smiling; Charles laughed out. “ Impos-
sible, Bateman,” he said; “you don’t mean you wear
your tailed French coat over your long straight cassock
reaching to your ankles ? ” “ Certainly,” said Bateman
gravely : “ I thus consult for warmth and appearance
too ; and all my parishioners are sure to know me. I
think this a great point, Miss Reding; I hear the little
hoys as I pass say, ‘ That’s the parson.’ ”	“ I’ll be

bound they do,” said Charles. “ Well,” said Mrs.
Reding, surprised out of her propriety, “ did one ever
hear the like !” Bateman looked round at her, startled
and frightened.

“ You were going to speak of your improvements in
your church,” said Mary, wishing to divert his attention
from her mother. “ Ah, true, Miss Reding, true,” said
Bateman, “thankyou for reminding me; I have digressed
to improvements in my own dress. I should have liked
to have pulled down the galleries and lowered the high
pews; that, however, I could not do. So I have
lowered the pulpit some six feet. Now by doing so,
first I give a pattern in my own person of the kind
of condescension or lowliness to which I would persuade
my people. But this is not all; for the consequence of
lowering the pulpit is, that no one in the galleries can
see or hear me preach ; and this is a bonus on those who
are below.” “ It’s a broad hint, certainly,” said Charles.
“ But it’s a hint for those below also,” continued Bate-
man ; “ for no one can see or hear me in the pews
either, till the sides are lowered.” “ One thing only is
wanting besides,” said Charles, smiling and looking ami-
able, lest he should be saying too much; “ since you areLOSS AND GAIN.

221

full tall, you must kneel when you preach, Bateman, else
you will undo your own alterations.” Bateman looked
pleased. “ I have anticipated you,” he said; “ I preach
sitting. It is more conformable to antiquity and to rea-
son to sit than to stand.” “ "With these precautions,”
said Charles, “ I really think you might have ventured
on your surplice in the pulpit every Sunday. Are your
parishioners contented ? ” “ Oh, not at all, far from it,”
cried Bateman ; “ but they can do nothing. The altera-
tion is so simple.” “Any thing besides?” asked Charles.
“ Nothing in the architectural way,” answered he ; “ but
one thing more in the way of observances. I have for-
tunately picked up a very fair copy of Jewell, black-
letter ; and I have placed it in church, securing it with
a chain to the wall, for any poor person who wishes to
read it. Our church is emphatically the £ poor man’s
church,’ Mrs. Reding.” “ Well,” said Charles to him-
self, “ I’ll back the old parsons against the young ones
any day, if this is to be their cut.” Then aloud:
“ Come, you must see our garden ; take up your hat,
and let’s have a turn in it. There’s a very nice terrace-
walk at the upper end.” Bateman accordingly, having
been thus trotted out for the amusement of the ladies,
was now led off again, and was soon in the aforesaid
terrace-walk, pacing up and down in earnest conversa-
tion with Charles.

“ Reding, my good fellow,” said he, “ what is the
meaning of this report concerning you, which is every
whereabout?” “I have not heard it,” said Charles
abruptly. “ Why, it is this,” said Bateman ; “ I wish
to approach the subject with as great delicacy as possi-
ble : don’t tell me if you don’t like it, or tell me just as
much as you like; yet you will excuse an old friend.222

LOSS AND GAIN.

They say you are going to leave the Church of your bap-
tism for the Church of Rome.” “ Is it widely spread ? ”
asked Charles coolly. “ Oh, yes ; I heard it in London;
have had a letter mentioning it from Oxford; and a friend
of mine heard it given out as positive at a visitation-din-
ner in Wales.” “So,” thought Charles, “you are
bringing your witness against me as well as the rest.”
“ Well but, my good Reding,” said Bateman, “ why are
you silent ? is it true ? is it true ? ” “ What true ? that I
am a Roman Catholic ? Oh, certainly; don’t you under-
stand that’s why I am reading so hard for the schools ?”
said Charles. “ Come, be serious for a moment, Re-
ding,” said Bateman, “ do be serious. Will you empower
me to contradict the report, or to negative it to a certain
point, or in any respect?” “Oh, to be sure,” said
Charles, “ contradict it by all means, contradict it en-
tirely.” “ May I give it a plain, unqualified, uncondi-
tional, categorical, flat denial ? ” asked Bateman. “ Of
course, of course.” Bateman could not make him out,
and had not a dream how he was teasing him. “ I
don’t know where to find you,” he said. They paced
down the walk in silence.

Bateman began again. “You see,” he said, “it
would be such a wonderful blindness, it would be so ut-
terly inexcusable, in a person like yourself, who had
known what the Church of England was; nob a Dissen-
ter, not an unlettered layman; but one who had been at
Oxford, who had come across so many excellent men,
who had seen what the Church of England could be, her
grave beauty, her orderly and decent activity; who had
seen churches decorated as they should be, with candle-
sticks, ciboriums, faldstools, lecterns, antependiums, pis-
cinas, roodlofts, and sedilia; who, in fact, had seen theLOSS AND GAIN.

223

Church-service carried out, and could desiderate nothing;
—tell me, my dear good Reding,” taking hold of his
button-hole, “ what is it you want ? what is it ? name
it.” “ That you would take yourself off,” Charles
would have said, had he spoken his mind; he merely
said, however, that really he desiderated nothing but to
be believed when he said that he had no intention of
leaving his own Church. Bateman was incredulous, and
thought him close. “ Perhaps you are not aware,” he
said, “ how much is known of the circumstances of your
being sent down. The old Principal was full of the sub-
ject.” “ What! I suppose he told people right and left,”
said Reding. “ Oh, yes,” answered Bateman; “ a friend
of mine knows him, and happening to call on him soon
after you went down, had the whole story from him. He
spoke most kindly of you, and in the highest terms;
said that it was deplorable how much your mind was
warped by the prevalent opinions, and that he should
not be surprised if it turned out you were a Romanist
even while you were at St. Saviour’s; any how, that
you would be one day a Romanist for certain, for that
you held that the saints reigning with Christ interceded
for us in heaven. But, what was stronger, when the
report got about, Sheffield said that he was not surprised
at it, that he always prophesied it.” “ I am much
obliged to him,” said Charles. “ However, you
warrant me,” said Bateman, “ to contradict it—so I
understand you—to contradict it peremptorily; that’s
enough for me. It’s a great relief; it’s very satisfactory.
Well, I must be going.” “I don’t like to seem to
drive you away,” said Charles, “ but really you must be
going, if you want to get home before nightfall. I hope
you don’t feel lonely or overworked where you are. If204

LOSS AND GAIN.

you are so at any time, don’t scruple to drop in to dinner
here; nay, we can take you in for a night, if you wish it.”
Bateman thanked him, and they proceeded to the
hall-door together ; when they were nearly parting,
Bateman stopped and said, “ Do you know, I should
like to lend you some books to read. Let me send up
to you Bramhall’s Works, Thorndike, Barrow on the
Unity of the Church, and Leslie’s Dialogues on Roman-
ism. I could name others, but content myself with
these at present. They perfectly settle the matter; you
can’t help being convinced. I’ll not say a word more;
good-bye to you, good-bye.”

CHAPTER XV.

Much as Charles loved and prized the company of
his mother and sisters, he was not sorry to have gen-
tlemen’s society; so he accepted with pleasure an invi-
tation which Bateman sent him to dine with him at
Melford. Also he wished to show Bateman, what no
protestation could effect, how absurdly exaggerated were
the reports which were circulated about him. And as
the $aid Bateman, with all his want of common sense,
was really a well-informed man, and well read in Eng-
lish divines, he thought he might incidentally hear some-
thing from him which he could turn to account. When
he got to Melford, he found a Mr. Campbell had been
asked to meet him; a young Cambridge rector of a
neighbouring parish, of the same religious sentiments
as Bateman, and, though a little positive, a man of clear
head and vigorous mind.

They had been going over the church; and the con-LOSS AND GAIN.

225

versation at dinner turned on the revival of Gothic archi-
tecture—an event which gave unmixed satisfaction to
all parties. The subject would have died out, almost as
soon as it was started, for want of a difference upon it,
hadnot Bateman happily gone on holdly to declare, that,
if he had his will, there should he no architecture in the
English churches hut Gothic, and no music but Gre-
gorian. This was a good thesis, distinctly put, and gave
scope for a very pretty quarrel. Reding said, that all
the^e adjuncts of worship, whether music or architec-
ture, were national: they were the mode in which reli-
gious feeling showed itself in particular times and places.
He did not mean to say, that the outward expression of
religion in a country might not be guided, but it could
not be forced ; that it was as preposterous to make
people worship in one’s own way, as be merry in one’s
own way. “ The Greeks,” he said, “ cut the hair in
grief, the Romans let it grow; the Orientals veiled their
heads in worship, the Greeks uncovered them; Chris-
tians take off their hats in a church, Mahometans their
shoes; a long veil is a sign of modesty in Europe, of
immodesty in Asia. You may as well try to change the
size of people, as their forms of worship. Bateman, we
must cut you down a foot, and then you shall begin your
ecclesiastical reforms.” “But surely,my worthy friend,”
answered Bateman, “ you don’t mean to say that there
is no natural connexion between internal feeling, and out-
ward expression, so that one form is no better than
another?” “Ear from it,” answered Charles; “but
let those who confine their music to Gregorians, put up
crucifixes in the highways. Each is the representative
of a particular locality or time.” “ That’s what I say of
our good friend’s short coat and long cassock,” said226

LOSS AND GAIN.

Campbell; “ it is a confusion of different times, ancient
and modern.” “ Or of different ideas,” said Charles,
“the cassock Catholic, the coat Protestant.” “The
reverse,” said Bateman; “the cassock is old Hooker’s
Anglican habit; the coat comes from Catholic France.”
“ Anyhow, it is what Mr. Beding calls a mixture of
ideas,” said Campbell; “ and that’s the difficulty I find
in uniting Gothic and Gregorians.” “ Oh, pardon me,”
said Bateman, “ they are one idea; they are both
eminently Catholic.” “You can’t be more Catholic than
Borne, I suppose,” said Campbell; “yet there’s no
Gothic there.” “ Borne is a peculiar place,” said Bate-
man ; “besides, my dear friend, if we do but consider that
Borne has corrupted the pure apostolic doctrine, can we
wonder that it should have a corrupt architecture?”
“ Why, then, go to Borne for Gregorians ?” said Camp-
bell ; “ I suspect they are called after Gregory the First,
Bishop of Borne, whom Protestants consider the first
specimen of Antichrist.” “ It’s nothing to us what Pro-
testants think,” answered Bateman. “Don’t let us
quarrel about terms,” said Campbell; “ both you and I
think that Borne has corrupted the faith, whether she is
Antichrist or not. You said so yourself just now.” “It
is true, I did,” said Bateman; “ but I make a little dis-
tinction. The Church of Borne has not corrupted
the faith, but has admitted corruptions among her
people.” “ It won’t do,” answered Campbell; “ depend
on it, we can’t stand our ground in controversy, unless
we in our hearts think very painfully of the Church of
Borne.” “ Why what’s Borne to us ? ” asked Bateman;
“ we come from the old British Church; we don’t
meddle with Borne, and we wish Borne not to meddle
with us, but she will.” “Well,” said Campbell, “you butLOSS AND GAIN.

227

read a bit of tbe History of tbe Eeformation, and you will
find that tbe doctrine that the Pope is Antichrist was
the life of the movement.” “ With Ultra-Protestants,
not with us,” answered Bateman. “ Such Ultra-Pro-
testants as the writers of the Homilies,” said Campbell;
“ but I say again, I am not contending for names; I only
mean, that as that doctrine was the life of the Eefor-
mation, so a belief, which I have and you too, that
there is something bad, corrupt, perilous in the Church
of Eome—thatthereis a spirit of Antichrist living in her,
energizing in her, and ruling her —is necessary to a man’s
being a good Anglican. You must believe this, or you ought
to go to Eome.” “Impossible! my dear friend,” said
Bateman; “all our doctrine has been, that Eome and we
are sister Churches.” “I say,” said Campbell, “that
without this strong repulsion, you will not withstand
the great claims, the overcoming attractions, of the
Church of Eome. She is our mother,—oh, that word
‘ mother! ’—a mighty mother! She opens her arms,—
oh, the fragrance of that bosom! She is full of gifts,—
I feel it, I have long felt it. Why don’t I rush into
her arms ? because I feel that she is ruled by a spirit
which is not she. But did that distrust of her go from
me, was that certainty which I have of her corruption
disproved, I should join her communion to-morrow.”
“ This is not very edifying doctrine for Eeding,”
thought Bateman. “ Oh, my good Campbell,” be said,
“you are paradoxical to-day.” “Not a bit of it,”
answered Campbell; “ our Eeformers felt that the only
way in which they could break the tie of allegiance
which bound us to Eome was the doctrine of her serious
corruption. And so it is with our divines. If there is
one doctrine in which they agree, it is that Eome is228

LOSS AND GAIN.

Antichrist, or an Antichrist. Depend upon it, that doc-
trine is necessary for our position.”

“ I don’t quite understand that language,” said
Reding; “ I see it is used in various publications. It im-
plies that controversy is a game, and that disputants
are not looking out for truth, but for arguments.” “You
must not mistake me, Mr. Reding,” answered Campbell;
“all I mean is, that you have no leave to trifle with
your conviction that Rome is antichristian, if you think
so. For if it is so, it is necessary to say so. A poet
says, ‘ Speak gently of our sister’s fall:’ no, if it is a
fall, we must not speak gently of it. At first one says,
‘So great a Church! who am I, to speak against it?’
Yes, you must, if it is true: ‘ Tell truth and shame the
Devil.’ Recollect you don’t use your own words; you
are sanctioned, protected by all our divines. You must,
else you can give no sufficient reason for not joining
the Church of Rome. You must speak out, not
what you don't think, hut what you do think, if you do
think it.” “ Here’s a doctrine!” thought Charles; “why
it’s putting the controversy into a nut-shell.” Bateman
interposed. “My dear Campbell,” he said, “you are
behind the day. We have given up all that abuse
against Rome.” “ Then the party is not so clever as
I give them credit for being,” answered Campbell;
“ be sure of this,—those who have given up their pro-
tests against Rome, either are looking towards her, or
have no eyes to see.” “ All we say,” answered Bate-
man, “ is, as I said before, that we don’t wish to inter-
fere with Rome; we don’t anathematise Rome—Rome
anathematises us." “It won’t do,” said Campbell;
“ those who resolve to remain in our Church, and are
using sweet words of Romanism, will be forced backLOSS AND GAIN.

229

upon tlieir proper ground in spite of themselves, and
will get no thanks for their pains. No man can serve
two masters; either go to Rome, or condemn Rome.
Eor me, the Romish Church has a great deal in it which
I can’t get over; and thinking so, much as I admire it
in parts, I can’t help speaking, I can’t help it. It
would not he honest, and it would not be consistent.”
“ Well, he has ended better than he began,” thought
Bateman; and he chimed in, “ 0 yes, true, too true ;
it’s painful to see it, but there’s a great deal in the
Church of Rome which no man of plain sense, no reader
of the Bathers, no Scripture student, no true member of
the Anglo-Catholic Church can possibly stomach.” This
put a corona on the discussion; and the rest of the
dinner passed off pleasantly indeed, but not very intel-
lectually.

CHAPTER XVI.

After dinner it occurred to them that the subject of
Gregorians and Gothic had been left in the lurch. “How
in the world did we get off it? ” asked Charles. “ Well,
at least we have found it,” said Bateman;' “and I
really should like to hear what you have to say upon it,
Campbell.” “ Oh, really, Bateman,” answered he, “ I
am quite sick of the subject; every one seems to me to
be going into extremes: what’s the good of arguing
about it ? you won’t agree with me.” “ I don’t see
that at all,” answered Bateman; “people often think
they differ, merely because they have not courage to
talk to each other.” “ A good remark,” thought
Charles; “ what a pity that Bateman, with so much230

LOSS AND GAIN.

sense, should have so little common sense!” “Well,
then,” said Campbell, “ my quarrel with Gothic and
Gregorians, when coupled together, is, that they are
two ideas, not one. Have figured music in Gothic
churches, keep your Gregorian for basilicas.” “ My
good Campbell,” said Bateman, “ you seem oblivious
that Gregorian chants and hymns have always accom-
panied Gothic aisles, Gothic copes, Gothic mitres, and
Gothic chalices.” “ Our ancestors did what they could,”
answered Campbell; “ they were great in architecture,
small in music. They could not use what was not yet
invented. They sang Gregorians because they had not
Palestrina.” “A paradox, a paradox,” cried Bateman.
“ Surely there is a close connexion,” answered Camp-
bell, “ between the rise and nature of the basilica and
of Gregorian unison. Both existed before Christianity;
both are of Pagan origin; both were afterwards conse-
crated to the service of the Church.” “ Pardon me,”
interrupted Bateman; “ Gregorians were Jewish, not
Pagan.” “ Be it so, for argument sake,” said Campbell;
“ still, at least they were not of Christian origin. Next,
both the old music and the old architecture were in-
artificial and limited, as methods of exhibiting their
respective arts. You can’t have a large Grecian temple,
you can’t have a long Gregorian Gloria.” “ Not a long
one !” said Bateman; “ why there’s poor Willis used to
complain how tedious the old Gregorian compositions
were abroad.” “ I don’t explain myself,” answered
Campbell; “ of course you may produce them to any
length, but merely by addition, not by carrying on the
melody. You can put two together, and then have one
twice as long as either. But I speak of a musical piece;
which must of course be the natural development ofLOSS AND GAIN.

231

certain ideas, with one part depending on another. In
like manner, you might make an Ionic temple twice as
long and twice as wide as the Parthenon; hut you would
lose the beauty of proportion by doing so. This, then,
is what I meant to say of the primitive architecture and
the primitive music, that they soon come to their limit;
they soon are exhausted, and can do nothing more. If
you attempt more, it’s like taxing a musical instrument
beyond its powers.”

“You but try, Bateman,” said Reding, “to make a
bass play quadrilles, and you will see what is meant by
taxing an instrument.” “ Well, I have heard Bindley
play all sorts of quick tunes on his bass,” said Bateman,
“ and most wonderful it is.” “ Wonderful is the right
word,” answered Reding; “ it is very wonderful. You
say, ‘ How can he manage it ? ’ and ‘ It’s very wonder-
ful for a bass;’ but it is not pleasant in itself. In like
manner, I have always felt a disgust when Mr. So-and-
so comes forward to make his sweet flute bleat and bray
like a hautbois ; it’s forcing the poor thing to do what
it was never made for.” “ This is literally true as re-
gards Gregorian music,” said Campbell; “ instruments
did% not exist in primitive times which could execute
any other. But I am speaking under correction; Mr.
Reding seems to know more about the subject than I
do.” “ I have always understood, as you say,” answered
Charles; “ modern music did not come into existence
till after the powers of the yiolin became known.
Corelli himself, who wrote not two hundred years ago,
hardly ventures on the shift. The piano, again, I have
heard, has almost given birth to Beethoven.” “Modern
music, then, could not be in ancient times, for want of
modern instruments,” said Campbell; “and, in like232

LOSS AND GAIN.

manner, Gothic architecture could not exist until vault-
ing was brought to perfection. Great mechanical inven-
tions have taken place, both in architecture and in
music, since the age of basilicas and Gregorians; and
each science has gained by it.” “ It is curious enough,”
said Reding, “ one thing I have been accustomed to say,
quite falls in with this view of yours. When people,
who are not musicians, have accused Handel and Beet-
hoven of not being simple, I have always said, ‘Is
Gothic architecture simple ? ’ A cathedral expresses
one idea, but is indefinitely varied and elaborated in its
parts ; so is a symphony or quartett of Beethoven’s.”

“ Certainly, Bateman, you must tolerate Pagan archi-
tecture, or you must iu consistency exclude Pagan or
Jewish Gregorians,” said Campbell; “you must tolerate
figured music, or reprobate tracery windows.” “ And
which are you for,” asked Bateman; “ Gothic with
Handel, or Roman with Gregorians?” “For both in
their place,” answered Campbell. “ I exceedingly pre-
fer Gothic architecture to classical. I think it the one
t^ue child and development of Christianity ; but I won’t,
for that reason, discard the Pagan style which has been
sanctified by eighteen centuries, by the exclusive love of
many Christian countries, and by the sanction of a host
of saints. I am for toleration. Give Q othic an ascen-
dency ; be respectful towards classical.”

The conversation slackened. “ Much as I like mo-
dern music,” said Charles, “ I can’t quite go the length
to which your doctrine would lead me. I cannot, indeed,
help liking Mozart; but surely his music is not religious.”
“ I have not been speaking in defence of particular com-
posers,” said Campbell; “ figured music may be right,
yet Mozart or Beethoven inadmissible. In like manner,LOSS AND GAIN.

233

you don’t suppose, because I tolerate Roman architec-
ture, that therefore I like naked cupids to stand for
cherubs,and sprawling women for the cardinal virtues.”
He paused ; “ Besides,” he added, “ as you were saying
yourself just now, we must consult the genius of our
country and the religious associations of our people.”
“ Well,” said Bateman, “I think the perfection of Ba-
cred music is Gregorian set to harmonies; there you
have the glorious old chants, and just a little modern
richness.” “ And I think it just the worst of all,” an-
swered Campbell; “ it is a mixture of two things, each
good in itself, and incongruous together. It’s a mixture
of the first and second courses at table. It’s like the
architecture of the fa9ade at Milan, half Gothic, half
Grecian.” “ It’s what is always used, I believe,” said
Charles. “ Oh, yes, we must not go against the age,”
said Campbell: “ it would be absurd to do so. I only
spoke of what was right and wrong on abstract princi-
ples ; and, to tell the truth, I can’t help liking the mix-
ture myself, though I can’t defend it.”

Bateman rang for tea; his friends wished to return
home soon; it was the month of January, and no sea-
son for after-dinner strolls. “ Well,” he said, “ Camp-
bell, you are more lenient to the age than to me; you
yield to the age when it sets a figured bass to a Gre-
gorian tone; but you laugh at me for setting a coat
upon a cassock.” “ It’s no honour to be the author of
a mixed type,” said Campbell. “ A mixed type ? ” said
Bateman; “rather it is a transition state.” “What
are you passing to ? ” asked Charles. “ Talking of tran-
sitions,” said Campbell; “ do you know that your man
Willis—I don’t know his college, he turned Romanist—
is living in my parish, and I have hopes he is making a234

LOSS AND GAIN.

transition back again.” “ Have you Been him ? ” said
Charles. “ No; I have called, but was unfortunate ;
he was out. He still goes to mass, I find.” “Why,
where does he find a chapel ? ” asked Bateman. “ At
Seaton.” “ A good seven miles from you,” said Charles.
“ Yes,” answered Campbell; “ and he walks to and fro
every Sunday.” “Thatis not like a transition, except
a physical one,” observed Reding. “ A person must go
somewhere,” answered Campbell; “ I suppose he went
to church up to the week he joined the Romanists.”
“Very awful, these defections,” said Bateman, “ but
very satisfactory, a melancholy satisfaction,” with a
look at Charles, “ that the victims of delusions should
be at length recovered.” “ Yes,” said Campbell; “ very
sad indeed. I am afraid we must expect a number
more.” “ Well, I don’t know how to think it,” said
Charles ; “ the hold our Church has on the mind* is so
powerful; it is such a wrench to leave it, I cannot
fancy any party-tie standing against it. Humanly
speaking, there is far, far more to keep them fast than
to carry them away.” “ Yes, if they moved as a party,”
said Campbell; “ but that is not the case. They don’t
move simply because others move, but, poor fellows,
because they can’t help it.—Bateman, will you let my
chaise be brought round?—How can they help it?”
continued he, standing up over the fire; “ their Catholic
principles lead them on, and there’s nothing to repel
them back.” “ Why should not their love for their
own Church ? ” asked Bateman; “ it is deplorable, un-
pardonable.” “ They will keep going one after another,
as they ripen,” said Campbell. “ Did you hear the re-
port—I did not think much of it myself,” said Reding,
—“ that Smith was moving ? ” “ Not impossible,” an-LOSS AND GAIN.

235

swered Campbell, thoughtfully. “ Impossible, quite
impossible,” cried Bateman; “such a triumph to the
enemy ; I’ll not believe it till I see it.” “ Not impossi-
ble,” repeated Campbell, as be buttoned and fitted his
great coat about him ; “ he has shifted his ground.”
His carriage was announced. “ Mr. Reding, I believe
I can take you part of your way, if you will accept of a
seat in my pony-chaise.” Charles accepted the offer ;
and Bateman was soon deserted by his two guests.

CHAPTER XYII.

Campbell put Charles down about half-way between
Melford and his home. It was bright moonlight; and,
after thanking his new friend for the lift, he bounded
over the stile at the side of the road, and was at once
buried in the shade of the copse along which his path lay.
Soon he came in sight of a tall wooden Cross, which, in
better days, had been a religious emblem, but had served
in latter times to mark the boundary between two con-
tiguous parishes. The moon was behind him, and the
sacred symbol rose awfully in the pale sky, overhanging
a pool, which was still venerated in the neighbourhood
for its reported miraculous virtue. Charles, to his sur-
prise, saw distinctly a man kneeling on the little mound
out of which the Cross grew ; nay, heard him, for his
shoulders were bare, and he was using the discipline upon
them, while he repeated what appeared to be some form
of devotion. Charles stopped, unwilling to interrupt,
yet not knowing how to pasB; but the stranger had
caught the sound of feet, and in a few seconds vanished236

LOSS AND GATN.

from his view. He was overcome with a sudden emotion,
which he could not control. “ 0 happy times,” he cried,
“when faith was one! O blessed penitent, whoever
you are, who know what to believe, and how to gain
pardon, and can begin where others end! Here am I
in my twenty-third year, uncertain about every thing, be-
cause I have nothing to trust.” He drew near to the
Cross, took off his hat, knelt down and kissed the wood,
and prayed awhile, that, whatever might be the conse-
quences, whatever the trial, whatever the loss, he might
have grace to follow whithersoever God should call him.
He then rose and turned to the cold well; he took some
water in his palm and drank it. He felt as if he could
have prayed to the Saint who owned that pool—St.
Thomas the Martyr, he believed—to plead for him, and
to aid him in his search after the true faith; hut some-
thing whispered, “It is wrong;” and he checked the
wish. So, regaining his hat, he passed away, and pur-
sued his homeward path at a brisk pace.

The family had retired for the night, and he went up
without delay to his bedroom. Passing through his study,
he found a letter lying on his table, without post-mark,
which had come for him in his absence. He broke the
seal; it was an anonymous paper, and began as follows :

“ Questions for one whom it concerns.

“ 1. What is meant by the One Church of which
the Creed speaks ?”

“ This is too much for to-night,” thought Charles,
“it is late already;” and he folded it up again, and
threw it on his dressing-table. “ Some well-meaning
person, I dare say, who thinks he knows me.” HeLOSS AND GAIN.

237

wound up his watch, gave a yawn, and put on his
slippers. “ Who can there be in this neighbourhood
to write it?” He opened it again. “It’s certainly
a Catholic’s writing,” he said. His mind glanced to
the person whom he had seen under the Cross; per-
haps it glanced further. He sat down, and began
reading in extenso:

“ Questions for one whom it concerns.

1.	What is meant by the One Church of which the

Creed speaks ?

2.	Is it a generalisation or a thing ?

3.	Does it belong to past history or to the present time ?

4.	Does not Scripture speak of it as a kingdom ?

5.	And a kingdom which was to last to the end ?

6.	What is a kingdom ? and what is meant when Scrip-

ture calls the Church a kingdom ?

7.	Is it a visible kingdom, or an invisible ?

8.	Can a kingdom have two governments, and these

acting in contrary directions ?

9.	Is identity of institutions, opinions, or race,

sufficient to make two nations one kingdom ?

10.	Is the Episcopal form, the hierarchy, or the
Apostles’ Creed, sufficient to make the Churches
of Eome and of England one ?

11.	Where there are parts, does not unity require
union, and a visible unity require a visible union ?

12.	How can two religions be the same, which have
utterly distinct worships and ideas of worship ?

13.	Can two religions be one, if the most sacred and
peculiar act of worship in the one is called ‘ a
blasphemous fable and dangerous deceit’ in the
other ?238

LOSS AND GAIN.

14.	Has not the One Church of Christ one faith ?

15.	Can a Church be Christ’s which has not one faith ?

16.	Whichis contradictory to itself in its documents ?

17.	And in different centuries ?

18.	And in its documents contrasted with its divines?

19.	And in its divines and members one with another?

20.	"What is the faith of the English Church ?

21.	How many Councils does the English Church
admit ?

22.	Does the English Church consider the present
Nestorian and Jacobite Churches under an
anathema, or part of the visible Church ?

23.	Is it necessary, or possible, to believe any one
but a professed messenger from God ?

24.	Is the English Church, does she claim to be, a
messenger from God ?

25.	Does she impart the truth, or bid us seek it ?

26.	If she leave us to seek it, do members of the
English Church seek*it with that earnestness
which Scripture enjoins ?

27.	Is a person safe who lives without faith, even
though he seems to have hope and charity ?”

Charles got veiy sleepy before he reached the
“twenty-seventhly.” “It won’t do,” he said; “lam
only losing my time. They seem well put; but they
must stand over.” He put the paper from him, said
his prayers, and was soon fast asleep.

Next morning, on waking, the subject of the letter
came into his mind, and he lay for some time thinking
over it. “ Certainly,” he said, “ I do wish very much
to be settled either in the English Church, or somewhere
else. I wish I knew what Christianity was; I amLOSS AND GAIN.

239

ready to be at pains to seek it, and would accept it
eagerly and thankfully if found. But it’s a work of
time ; all the paper-arguments in the world are unequal
to giving one a view in a moment. There must be a
process; they may shorten it, as medicine shortens
physical processes, but they can’t supersedeits necessity.
I recollect how all my religious doubts and theories went
to flight on my dear father’s death. They weren’t part
of me, and could not sustain rough weather. Convic-
tion is the eye-sight of the mind, not a conclusion from
premisses; God works it, and His works are slow. At
least so it is with me. I can’t believe on a sudden; if
I attempt it, I shall be using words for things, and be
sure to repent it. Or if not, I shall go right merely by
hazard. I must move in what seems God’s way; I
can but put myself on the road; a higher power must
overtake me, and carry me forward. At present I have
a direct duty upon me, which my dear father left me, to
take a good class. This is the path of duty. I won’t put
off the inquiry, but I’ll let it proceed in that path. God
can bless my reading to my spiritual illumination as well
as any thing else. Saul sought his uncle’s asses, and
found a kingdom. All in good time. When I have
taken my degree the subject will properly come on me.”
He sighed. “ My degree! those odious Articles! rather,
when I have passed my examination. Well, it’s no good
lying here;” and he jumped up and signed himself with
the Cross. His eye caught the letter. “ It’s well writ-
ten—better than Willis could write; it’s not Willis’s.
There’s something about that Willis I don’t understand.
I wonder how he and his mother get on together. I
don’t think he has any sisters.”240

LOSS AND GAIN.

CHAPTER XYIII.

Campbell had been much pleased with Charles, and
his interest in him was not lessened by a hint from
Bateman, that his alliance to the English Church was in
danger. He called on him in no long time, asked him
to dinner; and when Charles had returned his invitation,
and Campbell had accepted it, the beginning of an ac-
quaintance was formed between the rectory at Sutton
and the family at Boughton, which grew into an intimacy
as time went on. Campbell was a gentleman, a travelled
man, of clear head and ardent mind, candid, well-read
in English divinity, a devoted Anglican, and the incum-
bent of a living so well endowed as almost to be a dignity.
Mary was pleased at the introduction, as bringing her
brother under the influence of an intellect which he could
not make light of; and, as Campbell had a carriage, it
was natural that he should wish to save Charles the loss
of a day’s reading and the trouble of a muddy walk to the
rectory and back by coming over himself to Boughton.
Accordingly it so happened that he saw Charles twice at
his mother’s for once that he saw him at Sutton. But
whatever came of these visits, nothing occurred which
particularly bears upon the line of our narrative; so let
them pass.

One day Charles called upon Bateman, and, on enter-
ing the room, was surprised to see him and Campbell at
luncheon, and in conversation with a third person. There
was a moment’s surprise and hesitation on seeing him,
before they rose and welcomed him as usual. When
he looked at the stranger, he felt a slight awkwardness
himself, which he could not control. It was Willis;
and apparently submitted to the process of reconver-LOSS AND GAIN.

241

sion. Charles was evidently de trop, but there was no
help for it; so he shook hands with Willis, and ac-
cepted the pressing call of Bateman to seat himself at
table, and to share their bread and cheese.

Charles sat down opposite Willis, and for awhile could
not keep his eyes from him. At first he had some diffi-
culty in believing he had before him the impetuous youth
he had known two years and a half before. He had
always been silent in general company; but in that he
was changed, as in every thing else. Not that he talked
more than was natural, but he talked freely and easily.
The great change, however, was in his appearance and
manner. He had lost his bloom and youthfulness ; his
expression was sweeter indeed than before, and very
placid, but there was a thin line down his face on each
side of his mouth; his cheeks were wanting in fulness,
and he had the air of a man of thirty. When he entered
into conversation, and became animated, his former self
returned.

“ I suppose we may all admire this cream at this
season,” said Charles, as he helped himself, “ for we are
none of us Devonshire men.” “ It’s not peculiar to
Devonshire,” answered Campbell; “ that is, they have it
abroad. At Borne there is a sort of cream or cheese
very like it, and very common.” “Will butter and cream
keep in so warm a climate ? ” asked Charles; “ I fancied
oil was the substitute.” “ Borne is not so warm as you
fancy,” said Willis, “ except during the summer.” “ Oil ?
so it is,” said Campbell; “ thus we read in Scripture of
the multiplication of the oil and meal, which seems to
answer to bread and butter. The oil in Borne is excellent,
so clear and pale; you can eat it as milk.” “ The taste,
I suppose, is peculiar,” observed Charles. “ Just at

Q242

LOSS AND GAIN.

first,” answered Campbell; “but one soon gets used to it.
All sucb substances, milk, butter, cheese, oil, have a
particular taste at first, which use alone gets over. The
rich Guernsey butter is too much for strangers, while
Bussians relish whale-oil. Most of our tastes are in a
measure artificial.” “ It is certainly so with vegetables,”
said Willis; “ when I was a boy, I could not eat beans,
spinach, asparagus, parsnips, and I think some others.”
“ Therefore your hermit’s fare is not only the most natu-
ral, but the only naturally palatable, I suppose,—a crust
of bread and a draught from the stream,” replied Camp-
bell. “ Or the Clerk of Copmanhurst’s dry peas,” said
Charles. “ The macaroni and grapes of the Neapolitans
are as natural and more palatable,” said Willis. “Bather
they are a luxury,” said Bateman. “ No,” answered
Campbell, “ not a luxury; a luxury is in its very idea a
something recherche. Thus Horace speaks of the (pere-
grina lagois.’ What nature yields sponte sud around
you, however delicious, is no luxury. Wild ducks are
no luxury in your old neighbourhood, amid your Oxford
fens, Bateman; nor grapes at Naples.” “ Then the old
women here are luxurious over their sixpenn’rth of tea,”
said Bateman; “for it comes from China.” Campbell
was posed for an instant. Somehow neither he nor Bate-
man were quite at their ease, whether with themselves
or with each other; it might be Charles’s sudden intrusion,
or something which had happened before it. Campbell
answered at length that steamers and railroads were
making strange changes; thattime and place were vanish-
ing, and price would soon be the only measure of luxury.

“ This seems the measure also of grasso and magro
food in Italy,” said Willis; “ for, I think there are dis-
pensations for butcher’s meat in Lent, in consequence ofLOSS AND GAIN.

243

the dearness of bread and oil.” “This seems to show
that the age for abstinences and fastings is past,” ob-
served Campbell; “ for it’s absurd to keep Lent on beef
and mutton.” “ Oh, Campbell, what are you saying ?”
cried Bateman; “ past! are we bound by their lax ways
in Italy ? ” “ I do certainly think,” answered Campbell,
“ that fasting is unsuitable to this age, in England as
well as in Rome.” “Take care, my fine fellows,”
thought Charles; “ keep your ranks, or you won’t secure
your prisoner.” “What, not fast on Friday!” cried
Bateman; “ we always did so most rigidly at Oxford.”
“It does you credit,” answered Campbell; “but I am
of Cambridge.” “ But wbat do you say to Rubrics and
the Calendar?” insisted Bateman. “They are not
binding,’’ answered Campbell. “ They are binding,”
said Bateman. A pause, as between the rounds of a
boxing-match. Reding interposed : “ Bateman, cut
me, please, a bit of your capital bread—home-made, I
suppose ?”	“ A thousand pardons! ” said Bateman:—

“not binding?—Pass it to him, Willis, if you please.
Yes, it comes from a farmer, next door. I’m glad you
like it. I repeat, they are binding, Campbell.” “An
odd sort of binding, when they have never bound,”
answered Campbell; “ they have existed two or three
hundred years; when were they ever put in force?”
“ But there they are,” said Bateman, “in the Prayer-
book.” “ Yes, and there let them lie, and never get out
of it,” retorted Campbell; “ there they will stay till the
end of the story.” “ Oh, for shame!” cried Bateman;
“ you should aid your mother in a difficulty, and not be
like the priest and the Levite.” “ My mother does not
wish to be aided,” continued Campbell. “ Oh, how you
talk! What shall I do ? What can be done ?” cried
q 2244

LOSS AND GAIN.

poor Bateman. “ Done ! nothing,” said Campbell;
“ is there no such thing as the desuetude of a law ? Does
not a law cease to be binding when it is not enforced ? I
appeal to Mr. Willis.” Willis, thus addressed, answered
that he was no moral theologian, but he had attended
some schools; and he believed it was the Catholic rule,
that when a law had been promulgated, and was not
observed by the majority, if the legislator knew the state
of the case, and yet kept silence, he was considered ipso
facto to revoke it. “ What!” said Bateman to Camp-
bell, “ do you appeal to the Bomish Church ?”	“No,”

answered Campbell; “ I appeal to the whole Catholic
Church, of which the Church of Borne happens in this
particular case to be the exponent. It is plain common
sense, that if a law is not enforced, at length it ceases
to be binding. Else it would be quite a tyranny; we
should not know where we were. The Church of Borne
does but give expression to this common-sense view.”
“Well then,” said Bateman, “I will appeal to the
Church of Borne too. Borne is part of the Catholic
Church as well as we : since, then, the Bomish Church
has ever kept up fastings, the ordinance is not abolished;
the ‘ greater part ’ of the Catholic Church has always
observed it.” “But it has not,” said Campbell; “it
now dispenses with fasts, as you have heard.”

Willis interposed to ask a question. “ Do you mean
then,” he said to Bateman, “ that the Church of Eng-
land and the Church of Borne make one Church?”
“ Most certainly,” answered Bateman. “ Is it possible?”
said Willis; “ in what sense of the word one ? ”	“ In

every sense,” answered Bateman, “but that of inter-
communion.” “ That is, I suppose,” said Willis, “ they
are one, except that they have no intercourse with eachLOSS AND GAIN.

245

other.” Bateman assented. "Willis continued: “No
intercourse; that is, no social dealings, no consulting or
arranging, no ordering and obeying, no mutual support;
in short, no visible union.” Bateman still assented.
“Well, that is my difficulty,” said Willis; “I can’t
understand how two parts can make up one visible body,
if they are not visibly united ; unity implies union.”
“ I don’t see that at all,” said Bateman ; “ I don’t see
that at all. No, Willis, you must not expect I shall
give that up to you; it is one of our points. There is
only one visible Church, and therefore the English and
Romish Churches are both parts of it.”

Campbell saw clearly that Bateman had got into a
difficulty, and he came to the rescue in his own way.
“ We must distinguish,” he said, “the state of the case
more exactly. A kingdom may be divided, it may be
distracted by parties, by dissensions, yet be still a king-
dom. That, I conceive, is the real condition of the
Church; in this way the Churches of England, Rome,
and Greece are one.” “ I suppose you will grant,” said
Willis, “ that in proportion as a rebellion is strong, so is
the unity of the kingdom threatened; and if a rebellion
is successful, or if the parties in a civil war manage to
divide the power and territory between them, then forth-
with, instead of one kingdom, we have two. Ten or
fifteen years since, Belgium was part of the kingdom of
the Netherlands; I suppose you would not call it part of
the kingdom now ? This seems the case of the Churches
of Rome and England.” “ Still, a kingdom may be in
a state of decay,” replied Campbell; “ consider the case
of the Turkish Empire at this moment. The union be-
tween its separate portions is bo languid, that each se-
parate Pasha may almost be termed a separate sovereign;246

LOSS AND GAIN.

still it is one kingdom.” “ The Church, then, at pre-
sent,” said Willis, “is a kingdom tending to dissolution?”
“ Certainly it is,” answered Campbell. “ And will ulti-
mately fail ? ” asked Willis. “ Certainly,” said Camp-
bell ; “ when the end comes, according to our Lord’s
saying, ‘ When the Son of man cometh, shall He find
faith on the earth?’ just as in the case of the chosen
people, the sceptre failed from Judah when the Shiloh
came.” “ Surely the Church has failed already before
the end,” said Willis, “ according to the view you take
of failing. How can any separation be more complete
than exists at present between Eome, Greece, and
England ? ” “ They might excommunicate each other,”
said Campbell. “Then you are willing,” said Willis,
“ to assigubeforehand something definite, the occurrence
of which will constitute a real separation.” “ Don’t do
so,” said Reding to Campbell; “it is dangerous; don’t
commit yourself in a moral question; for then, if the thing
specified did occur, it would be difficult to see our way.”
“ Ho,” said Willis; “ you certainly would be in a diffi-
culty ; but you would find your way out, I know. In
that case you would choose some other ultimatum as your
test of schism. There would be,” he added, speaking
with some emotion, “ ‘ in the lowest depth a lower still.’ ”
The concluding words were out of keeping with the
tone of the conversation hitherto, and fairly excited
Bateman, who, for some time, had been an impatient
listener. “ That’s a dangerous line, Campbell,” he said,
“ it is indeed ; I can’t go along with you. It will never
do to say that the Church is failing ; no, it never fails.
It is always strong, and pure, and perfect, as the Pro-
phets describe it. Look at its cathedrals, abbey-
churches, and other sanctuaries, these fitly ^yp%\ it.”LOSS AND GAIN.

247

“My dear Bateman,” answered Campbell, “I am-as
willing as you to maintain the fulfilment of the pro-
phecies made to the Church, but we must allow the fact
that the branches of the Church are divided, while we
maintain the doctrine that the Church should be one.”
“I don’t see that at all,” answered Bateman; “no, we
need not allow it. There’s no such thing as Churches,
there’s but one Church every where, and it is not divided.
It is merely the outward forms, appearances, manifesta-
tions of the Church that are divided. The Church is
one as much as ever it was. Just as in the Consecrated
Bread, the material substance is broken, but the Pre-
sence of Christ remains one and the same.” “ That will
never do,” said Campbell; and he stood up before the
fire in a state of discomfort. “ Nature never intended
you for a controversialist, my good Bateman,” he added
to himself. “ It is as I thought,” said Willis ; “ Bate-
man, you are describing an invisible Church. You hold
the indefectibility of the invisible Churcb, not of the
visible.”

“ They are in a fix,” thought Charles, “ but I will
do my best to tow old Bateman out;” so he began:
“ No,” he said, “ Bateman only means, that one
Church presents, in some particular point, a different
appearance from another; but it does not follow that,
in fact, they have not a visible agreement too. All
difference implies agreement; the English and Bo-
man Churches agree visibly and differ visibly. Think
of the different styles of architecture, and you will
see, Willis, what he means. A church is a church
all the world over, it is visibly one and the same,
and yet how different is church from church! Our
churches are Gothic, the southern churches are Pal-248

LOSS AND GAIN.

ladian. How different is a basilica from York Ca-
thedral ! yet they visibly agree together. No one
would mistake either for a mosque or a Jewish temple.
"We may quarrel which is the better style; one likes the
basilica, another calls it pagan.” “That I do,” said
Bateman. “A little extreme,” said Campbell, “a
little extreme, as usual. The basilica is beautiful in its
place. There are two things which Gothic cannot show
—the line or forest of round polished columns, and the
graceful dome, circling above one’s head like the blue
heaven itself.”

All parties were glad of this diversion from the reli-
gious dispute; so they continued the lighter conversation
which had succeeded it with considerable earnestness.
“I fear I must confess,” said Willis, “that the
churches at Home do not affect me like the Gothic ; I
reverence them, I feel awe in them, but I love, I feel a
sensible pleasure at the sight of the Gothic arch.”
“There are other reasons for that in Rome,” said
Campbell; “ the churches are so unfinished, so untidy.
Rome is a city of ruins; the Christian temples are built
on ruins, and they themselves are generally dilapidated
or decayed; thus they are ruins of ruins.” Campbell
was on an easier subject than that of Anglo-Catholicism,
and, no one interrupting him, he proceeded flowingly:
“ In Rome you have huge high buttresses in the place of
columns, and these not cased with marble, but of cold
white plaster or paint. They impart an indescribable
forlorn look to the churches.” Willis said he often
wondered what took so many foreigners, that is Protes-
tants, to Rome; it was so dreary, so melancholy a
place; a number of old, crumbling, shapeless, brick
masses, the ground unlevelled, the straight causewaysLOSS AND GAIN.

249

fenced by high monotonous walls, the points of attrac-
tion straggling over broad solitudes, faded palaces, trees
universally pollarded, streets ankle deep in filth or eyes-
and-mouth deep in a cloud of whirling dust and straws,
the climate most capricious, the evening air most peril-
ous. Naples was an earthly paradise ; but Rome was
a city of faith. To seek the shrines it contained was a
veritable penance, as was fitting. He understood Ca-
tholics going there ; he was perplexed at Protestants.
“There is a spell about the limina Apostolorum,”
said Charles; “ St. Peter and St. Paul are not there
for nothing.” “ There is a more tangible reason,” said
Campbell; “ it is a place where persons of all nations
are to be found ; no society is so varied as the Roman.
You go to a ball-room ; your host, whom you bow to
in the first apartment, is a Frenchman ; as you advance,
your eye catches Massena’s granddaughter in conversa-
tion with Mustapha Pasha; you soon find yourself
seated between a Yankee charge d'affaires and a
Russian colonel; and an Englishman is playing the
fool in front of you.”

Here Campbell looked at his watch, and then at
"Willis, whom he had driven over to Melford to return
"Bateman’s call. It was time for them to be going, or
they would be overtaken by the evening. Bateman, who
had remained in a state of great dissatisfaction since he
last spoke, which had not been for a quarter of an hour
past, did not find himself in spirits to try much to de-
tain either them or Reding ; so he was speedily left to
himself. He drew his chair to the fire, and for a while
felt nothing more than a heavy load of disgust. After
a time, however, his thoughts began to draw themselves
out into series, and took the following form: “ It’s too250

LOSS AND GAIN.

bad, too bad,” he said; “ Campbell is a very clever
man—far cleverer than I am; a well-read man, too ; but
he has no tact, no tact. It is deplorable; Reding’s
coming was one misfortune ; however, we might have
got over that, we might have even turned it to an ad-
vantage; but to use such arguments as he did! how
could he hope to convince him ? he made us both a
mere laughing-stock. . . . How did he throw off? Oh,
he said that the Rubrics were not binding. Who ever
heard such a thing—at least from an Anglo-Catholic ?
Why pretend to be a good Catholic with such views ?
Better call himself a Protestant or Erastian at once, and
one would know where to find him. Such a bad im-
pression it must make on Willis : I saw it did ; he could
hardly keep from smiling; but Campbell has no tact at
all. He goes on, on, his own way, bringing out his
own thoughts, which are very clever, original certainly,
but never considering his company. And he’s so posi-
tive, so knock-me-down; it is quite unpleasant, I don’t
know how to sit it sometimes. Oh, it is a cruel thing
this—the effect must be wretched. Poor Willis! I de-
clare I don’t think we have moved him one inch, I really
don’t. I fancied at one time he was even laughing at
me. . . . What was it he said afterwards ? there was
something else, I know. I recollect; that the Catholic
Church was in ruins, had broken to pieces. What a
paradox! who’ll believe that but he ? I declare I am
so vexed I don’t know what to be at.” He jumped up,
and began walking to and fro. “ But all this is because
the Bishops won’t interfere; one can’t say it, that’s the
worst, but they are at the bottom of the evil. They
have but to put out their little finger, and enforce the
Rubrics, and then the whole controversy would be at anLOSS AND GAIN.

251

end. ... I knew there was something else. He said we
need not fast! But Cambridge men are always peculiar,
they always have some whim or other; he ought to have
been at Oxford, and we should have made a man of
him. He has many good points, but he runs theories,
and rides hobbies, and drives consequences, to death.”
Here he was interrupted by his clerk, who told him
that John Tims had taken his oath that his wife should
not be churched before the congregation, and was half-
minded to take his infant to the Methodists for baptism;
and his thoughts took a different direction.

CHAPTEE XIX.

The winter had been on the whole dry and pleasant,
but in February and March the rains were so profuse,
and the winds so high, that Bateman saw very little of
either Charles or Willis. He did not abandon his de-
signs on the latter, but it was an anxious question how
best to conduct them. As to Campbell, he was re-
solved to exclude him from any participation in them;
but he hesitated about Eeding. He had found him far
less definitely Eoman than he expected, and he con-
jectured that, by making him his confidant and employ-
ing him against Willis, he really might succeed in giving
him an Anglican direction. Accordingly, he told him
of his anxiety to restore Willis to “the Church of his
baptism; ” and not discouraged by Charles’s advice to
let well alone, and that he might succeed in drawing him
from Eome without reclaiming him to Anglicanism, the
weather having improved, he asked the two to dinner252

LOSS AND GAIN.

on one of the later Sundays in Lent. He determined
to make a field-day of it; and with that view, he care-
fully got up some of the most popular works against the
Church of Rome. After much thought, he determined
to direct his attack on some of the “ practical evils,” as
he considered them, of “Romanism as being more
easy of proof than points of doctrine and history,
in which, too, for what he knew, Willis might by this
time be better read than himself. He considered, too,
that, if Willis had been at all shaken in his new faith
when he was abroad, it was by the practical exemplifi-
cation which he had before his eyes, of the issue of its
peculiar doctrines when freely carried out. Moreover,
to tell the truth, our good friend had not a very clear
apprehension how much doctrine he held in common
with the Church of Rome, or where he was to stop in
the several details of Pope Pius’s Creed; in consequence,
it was evidently safer to confine his attack to matters of
practice.

“ You see, Willis,” he said, as they sat down to table,
“ I have given you abstinence food, not knowing whether
you avail yourself of the dispensation. We shall eat
meat ourselves; but don’t think we don’t fast at proper
times; I don’t agree with Campbell at all; we don’t
fast, however, on Sunday. That is our rule, and, I take
it, a primitive one.” Willis answered, that he did not
know how the primitive usage lay, but he supposed that
both of them allowed that matters of discipline might
be altered by the proper authority. “ Certainly,” an-
swered Bateman, “ so that every thing is done consis-
tently with the inspired text of Scripture; ’ ’ —he stopped,
itching, if he could, to bring in some great subject, but
not seeing how. He saw he must rush in mediae res ;LOSS AND GAIN.

253

so lie added,—“with which inspired text, I presume,
what one sees in foreign churches is not very consistent.”
“ What, I suppose you mean antependia, rere-dosses,
stone altars, copes, and mitres,” said Willis, innocently;
“ which certainly are not in Scripture.” “ True,” said
Bateman; “ but these, though not in Scripture, are not
inconsistent with Scripture. They are all very right;
hut the worship of Saints, especially the Blessed
Virgin, and of relics, the gabbling over prayers in an
unknown tongue, Indulgences, and infrequent commu-
nions, I suspect are directly unscriptural.” “ My dear
Bateman,” said Willis, “ you seem to live in an air of
controversy; so it was at Oxford; there was always
argument going on in your rooms. Religion is a thing
to enjoy, not to quarrel about; give me a slice more of
that leg of mutton.” “ Ves, Bateman,” said Reding,
“you must let us enjoy our meat. Willis deserves it,
for I believe he has had a fair walk to-day. Have you
not been all the way to Seaton and back ? a matter of
fourteen miles, and hilly ground; it can’t be dry, too, in
parts yet.” “True,” said Bateman; “take a glass of
wine, Willis; it’s good Madeira; an aunt of mine sent
it me.” “ He puts us to shame,” said Charles, “ who
have stepped into church from our bedroom; he has
trudged a pilgrimage to his.” “ I’m not saying a word
against our dear friend Willis,” said Bateman; “ it was
merely a point on which I thought he would agree with
me, that there were many corruptions of worship in
foreign churches.” At last, when his silence was ob-
servable, Willis said that he supposed that persons who
were not Catholics could not tell what were corruptions
and what not. Here the subject dropped again; for
Willis did not seem in a humour, perhaps he was too tired254

LOSS AND GAIN.

to continue it. So they ate and drank, with nothing
but very commonplace remarks to season their meal
withal, till the cloth was removed. The table was then
shoved back a bit, and the three young men got over
the fire, which Bateman made burn brightly. Two of
them at least had deserved some relaxation, and they
were the two who were to be opponent and respondent
in the approaching argument; one had had a long walk:
the other had had two full services, a baptism, and a
funeral. The armistice continued a good quarter of an
hour, which Charles and Willis spent in easy conversa-
tion ; till Bateman, who had been priming himself the
while with his controversial points, found himself ready
for the assault, and opened it in form.

“ Come, my dear Willis,” he said; “ I can’t let you
off so; I am sure what you saw abroad scandalised
you.” This was almost rudely put: Willis said that,
had he been a Protestant, he might have been easily
shocked; but he had been a Catholic; and he drew an
almost imperceptible sigh. Besides, had he had a temp-
tation to be shocked, he should have recollected that he
was in a Church, which in all greater matters could not
err. He had not come to the Church to criticise, he
said, but to learn. “I don’t know,” he said, “what
is meant by saying that we ought to have faith, that
faith is a grace, that faith is the means of our salvation,
if there is nothing to exercise it. Paith goes against
sight; well, then, unless there are sights which offend
you, there is nothing for it to go against.” Bateman
called this a paradox; if so, he said, why don’t we be-
come Mahometans ? we should have enough to believe
then.

“ Why, just consider,” said Willis; “ supposing yourLOSS AND GAIN.

255

friend, an honourable man, is accused of theft, and ap-
pearances are against him, would you at once admit the
charge ? It would be a fair trial of your faith in him ;
and if he were able in the event satisfactorily to rebut it, I
don’t think he would thank you, should you have waited
for his explanation before you took his part, instead of
knowing him too well to suspect it. If, then, I come
to the Church with faith in her, whatever I see there,
even if it surprises me, is but a trial of my faith.”
“ That is true,” said Charles ; “ but there must be some
ground for faith; we do not believe without reason;
and the question is, whether what the Church does, as
in worship, is not a fair matter to form a judgment upon,
for or against.” “A Catholic,” said Willis, “as I
was when I was abroad, has already found his grounds,
for he believes; but for one who has not—I mean a
Protestant—I certainly consider it is very uncertain
whether he will take the view of Catholic worship which
he ought to take. It may easily happen that he will
not understand it.” “ Yet persons have before now
been converted by the sight of Catholic worship,” said
Reding. “ Certainly,” answered Willis; “ God works
in a thousand ways; there is much in Catholic worship
to strike a Protestant, but there is much which will
perplex him; for instance, what Bateman has alluded
to, our devotion to the Blessed Virgin.”

“ Surely,” said Bateman, “this is a plain matter; it
is quite impossible that the worship paid by Roman Ca-
tholics to the Blessed Mary should not interfere with the
supreme adoration due to the Creator alone.” “ This is
just an instance in point,” said Willis ; “you see you
are judging a priori; you know nothing of the state of
the case from experience, but you say, ‘ It must be; it256

LOSS AND GAIN.

can’t be otherwise.’ This is the way a Protestant judges,
and comes to one conclusion; a Catholic, who acts, and
does not speculate, feels the truth of the contrary.”
“ Some things,” said Bateman, “ are so like axioms, as
to supersede trial. On the other hand, familiarity is
very likely to hide from people the real evil of certain
practices.” “ How strange it is,” answered Willis,
“ that you don’t perceive that this is the very argument
which various sects urge against you Anglicans! For
instance, the Unitarian says that the doctrine of the
Atonement must lead to our looking at the Father, not
as a God of love, but of vengeance only; and he calls
the doctrine of eternal punishment immoral. And so,
the Wesleyan or Baptist declares that it is an absurdity
to suppose any one can hold the doctrine of baptismal
regeneration, and really be spiritual; that the doctrine
must have a numbing effect on the mind, and destroy
its single reliance on the atonement of Christ. I will
take another instance: many a good Catholic, who never
came across Anglicans, is as utterly unable to realise your
position as you are to realise his. He cannot make out
how you can be so illogical as not to go forward or back-
ward ; nay, he pronounces your professed state of mind
impossible; he does not believe in its existence. I may
deplore your state; I may think you illogical and worse ;
but I know it is a state which does exist. As, then,
I admit that a person can profess one Catholic Church,
yet without believing that the Roman Communion is it;
so I put it to you, even as an argumentum ad hominem,
whether you ought not to believe that wo can honour
our Blessed Lady as the first of creatures, without inter-
fering with the honour due to God ? At most, you ought
to call us only illogical, you ought not to deny that weLOSS AND GAIN.

257

do what we say we do.” “ I make a distinction,” said
Bateman: “ it is quite possible, I fully grant, for an
educated Romanist to distinguish between the devotion
paid by him to the Blessed Virgin, and the worship of
God; I only say that the multitude will not distinguish.”
“I know you say so,” answered Willis; “and still, I
repeat, not from experience, but on an a priori ground.
You say, not ‘ it is so,’ but ‘ it must be so.’ ”

There was a pause in the conversation, and then Bate-
man recommenced it. “You may give us some trouble,”
said he, laughing, “ but we are resolved to have you
back, my good Willis. Now consider, you are a lover
of truth : is that Church from heaven which tells un-
truths ?” Willis laughed too; “We must define the
words truth and untruth?’ he said; “ but, subject to that
definition, I have no hesitation in enunciating the truism,
that a Church is not from heaven which tells untruths.”
“ Of course, you can’t deny the proposition,” said Bate-
man ; “ well then, is it not quite certain that in Rome
itself there are relics which all learned men now give up,
and which yet are venerated as relics ? Bor instance,
Campbell tells me that the reputed heads of St. Peter
and St. Paul, in some great Roman basilica, are certainly
not the heads of the Apostles, because the head of St.
Paul was found with his body, after the fire at his church
some years since.” “ I don’t know about the particular
instance,” answered Willis; “ but you are opening a
large question, which cannot be settled in a few words.
If I must speak, I should say this: I should begin with
the assumption that the existence of relics is not impro-
bable; do you grant that?” “I grant nothing,” said
Bateman; “ but go on.” “ Why you have plenty of
heathen relics, which you admit. What is Pompeii,258

LOSS AND GAIN.

and all that is found there, but one vast heathen relic ?
why should there not be Christian relics in Rome and
elsewhere, as well as pagan ?” “Of course, of course,”
said Bateman. “ Well, and relics may be identified.
You have the tomb of the Scipios, with their names on
them. Did you find ashes in one of them, I suppose you
would be pretty certain that they were the ashes of a
Scipio.” “ To the point,” cried Bateman, “ quicker.”
“ St. Peter,” continued Willis, “speaks of David, ‘whose
sepulchre is with you unto this day.’ Therefore it’s no-
thing wonderful that a religious relic should be preserved
eleven hundred years, and identified to be such, when a
nation makes a point of preserving it.” “ This is heat-
ing about the bush,” cried Bateman impatiently; “ get
on quicker.” “ Let me go on my own way,” said Willis ;
“ then there is nothing improbable, considering Chris-
tians have always been very careful about the memorials
of sacred things—”	“ You’ve not proved that,” said

Bateman, fearing that some manoeuvre, he could not tell
what, was in progress. “ Well,” said Willis, “you don’t
doubt it, I suppose, at least from the fourth century,
when Saint Helena brought from the Holy Land the me-
morials of our Lord’s passion, and lodged them at Rome
in the Basilica, which she thereupon called Santa Croce.
As to the previous times of persecution, Christians of
course had fewer opportunities of showing a similar de-
votion, and historical records are less copious ; yet, in
spite of this, its existence is as certain as any fact of
history. They collected the bones of St. Polycarp, the im-
mediate disciple of St. John, after he was burnt; as of
St. Ignatius before him, after his exposure to the beasts;
and so in like manner the bones or blood of all the mar-
tyrs. No one doubts it; I never heard of any one whoLOSS AND GAIN.

259

did. So the disciples took up the Baptist’s body,—it
would have been strange if they had not,—and buried
it ‘ in the sepulchre,’ as the Evangelist says, speaking of
it as known. Now, why should they not in like manner,
and even with greater reason, have rescued the bodies
of St. Peter and St. Paul, if it were only for decent
burial? Is it then wonderful, if the bodies were rescued,
that they should be afterwards preserved ?” “ But they
can’t be in two places at once,” said Bateman. “ But
hear me,” answered Willis; “ I say then if there is a
tradition that in a certain place there is a relic of an
apostle, there is at first sight a probability that it is there;
the presumption is in its favour. Can you deny it ?
Well, if the same relic is reported to be in two places,
then one or the other tradition is erroneous, and the
prima facie force of both traditions is weakened; but I
should not actually discard either at once; each has its
force still, though neither so great a force. Now, sup-
pose there are circumstances which confirm the one, the
other is weakened still further, and at length the proba-
bility of its truth may become evanescent; and when a
fair interval has passed, and there is no change of evi-
dence in its favour, then it is at length given up. But
all this is a work of time; meanwhile, it is not a bit
more of an objection to the doctrine and practice of relic-
veneration that a body is said to lie in two places, than
to profane history that Charles the First was reported by
some authorities to be buried at Windsor, by others at
Westminster; which question was decided just before
our times. It is a question of evidence, and must be
treated as such.” “But if St. Paul’s head was found
under his own church,” said Bateman, “ it’s pretty clear
it is not preserved at the other basilica.” “True,”260

LOSS AND GAIN.

answered Willis; “ but grave questions of this kind
cannot be decided in a moment. I don’t know myself
the circumstances of the case, and do but take your ac-
count of it. It has to be proved, then, that it was St.
Paul’s head which was found with his body ; for, since
he was beheaded, it would not be attached to it. This
is one questioD, and others would arise. It is not easy
to settle a question of history. Questions which seem
settled revive. It is very well for secular historians to
give up a tradition or testimony at once, and for a genera-
tion to oh-oh it; but the Church cannot do so ; she has
a religious responsibility, and must move slowly. Take
the chance of its turning out that the heads at St. John
Lateran were, after all, those of the two Apostles, and
that she had cast them aside. Questions, I say, revive.
Did not Walpole prove to admiration that the two little
princes had a place in the procession at King Richard’s
coronation ? yet, some years ago, two skeletons of boys
were found in the Tower at the very place where the
children of Edward were said to have been murdered and
buried by the Duke of Gloucester. I speak from me-
mory, but the general fact which I am illustrating is un-
deniable. Ussher, Pearson, and Voss proved that St.
Ignatius’s shorter Epistles were genuine; and now, after
the lapse of two centuries, the question is at least
plausibly mooted again.”

There was anotherpause, while Bateman thought over
his facts and arguments, but nothing was forthcoming
at the moment. Willis continued: “ You must consider
also that reputed relics, such as you have mentioned,
are generally in the custody of religious bodies, who
are naturally very jealous of attempts to prove them
spurious, and with a pardonable esprit de corps, defendLOSS AND GAIN.

261

them with all their might, and oppose obstacles in the
way of an adverse decision; just as your own society
defends, most worthily, the fair fame of your foundress,
Queen Boadicea. Were the case given against her by
every tribunal in the land, your valiant and loyal Head
would not abandon her; it would break his magnani-
mous heart; he would die in her service as a good
knight. Both from religious duty, then, and from
human feeling, it is a very arduous thing to get a re-
ceived relic disowned.” “ Well,” said Bateman, “to
my poor judgment it does seem a dishonesty to keep up
inscriptions, for instance, which every one knows not to
be true.” “ My dear Bateman, that is begging the
question,” said Willis; “ every body does not know it;
it is a point in course of settlement, but not settled;
you may say that individuals have settled it, or it may
be settled, but it is not settled yet. Parallel cases
happen frequently in civil matters, and no one speaks
harshly of existing individuals or bodies in consequence.
Till lately, the Monument in London bore an inscription
to the effect that London had been burned by us poor
Papists. A hundred years ago, Pope, the poet, had
called the ‘ column ’ ‘ a tall bully,’ which ‘ lifts its head
and lies.’ Yet the inscription was not removed till a
few years since—I believe when the Monument was re-
paired. That was an opportunity for erasing a calumny
which, till then, had not been definitely pronounced to
be such, and not pronounced, in deference to theprimd
facie authority of a statement contemporaneous with the
calamity which it recorded. There is never a point of
time at which you can say, ‘ The tradition is now dis-
proved.’ When a received belief has been apparently
exposed, the question lies dormant, for the opportunity262

LOSS AND GAIN.

of fresh arguments; when none appear, then at length an
accident, such as the repair of a building, dispatches it.”
“We have somehow got off the subject,” thought
Bateman; and he sat fidgeting about to find the thread
of his argument. Beding put in an objection; he said
that no one knew or cared about the inscription on the
Monument, but religious veneration was paid to the two
heads at St. John Lateran. “Bight,” said Bateman,
“ that’s just what I meant to say.” “ Well,” answered
Willis, “ as to the particular case, mind, I am taking
your account of it, for I don’t profess to know how the
matter lies. But let us consider the extent of the mis-
take. There is no doubt in the world that at least they
are the heads of martyrs; the only question is this,
and no more, whether they are the very heads of the
two Apostles. From time immemorial they have been
preserved upon or under the altar as the heads of saints
or martyrs ; and it requires to know very little of Chris-
tian antiquities to be perfectly certain that they really
are saintly relics, even though unknown. Hence the
Bole mistake is, that Catholics have venerated, what
ought to be venerated any how, under a wrong name ;
perhaps have expected miracles, (which they had a right
to expect,) and have experienced them, (as they might
well experience them,) because they were the relics of
saints, though they were in error as to what saints.
This surely is no great matter.” “You have made
three assumptions,” said Bateman; “ first, that none
but the relics of saints have been placed under altars ;
secondly, that these relics were always there; thirdly
—thirdly—I know there was a third—let me see ”—
“ Most true,” said Willis, interrupting him, “ and I
will help you to some others. I have assumed thatLOSS AND GAIN.

263

there are Christians in the world called Catholics; again,
that they think it right to venerate relics; but, my dear
Bateman, these were the grounds, and not the point of
our argument; and if they are to be questioned, it must
be in a distinct dispute: but I really think we have
had enough of disputation.” “Yes, Bateman,” said
Charles ; “ it is getting late. I must think of return-
ing. Give us some tea, and let us begone.” “ Go
home ? ” cried Bateman ; “ why, we have just done
dinner, and done nothing else as yet; I had a great
deal to say.” However, he rang the bell for tea, and
had the table cleared.

CHAPTER XX.

The conversation flagged; Bateman was again busy
with his memory ; and he was getting impatient too ;
time was slipping away, and no blow struck; moreover,
Willis was beginning to gape, and Charles seemed im-
patient to be released. “ These Romanists put things
so plausibly,” he said to himself, “ but very unfairly,
most unfairly; one ought to be up to their dodges. I
dare say, if the truth were known, Willis has had
lessons; he looks so demure; I dare say he is keeping
back a great deal, and playing upon my ignorance.
Who knows ? perhaps he’s a concealed Jesuit.” It was
an awful thought, and suspended the course of his re-
flections some seconds. “ I wonder what he does really
think; it’s so difficult to get at the bottom of them;
they won’t tell tales, and they are under obedience;
one never knows when to believe them. I suspect he264

LOSS AND GAIN.

has been wofully disappointed with Romanism; he looks
so thin ; but of course he won’t say so; it hurts a man’s
pride, and he likes to be consistent; he doesn’t like to
be laughed at, and so he makes the best of things. I
wish I knew how to treat him ; I was wrong in having
Reding here; of course Willis would not be confidential
before a third person. He’s like the fox that lost his
tail. It was bad tact in me; I see it now; what a
thing it is to have tact! it requires very delicate tact.
There are so many things I wished to say, about Indul-
gences, about their so seldom communicating; I think I
must ask him about the Mass.” So, after fidgeting a
good deal within, while he was ostensibly employed
in making tea, he commenced his last assault.

“Well, we shall have you back again among us by
next Christmas, Willis,” he said; “ I can’t give you
greater law ; I am certain of it; it takes time, but slow
and sure. What a joyful time it will be ! I can’t tell
what keeps you; you are doing nothing ; you are flung
into a corner; you are wasting life. What keeps you ? ”
Willis looked odd ; then he simply answered, “ Grace.”
Bateman was startled, but recovered himself; “ Heaven
forbid,” he said, “ that I should treat these things
lightly, or interfere with you unduly. I know, my dear
friend, what a serious fellow you are ; but do tell me,
just tell me, how can you justify the Mass, as it is per-
formed abroad; how can it be called a ‘ reasonable
service,’ when all parties conspire to gabble it over, as
if it mattered not a jot who attended to it, or even un-
derstood it ? Speak, man, speak,” he added, gently
shaking him by the shoulder. “ These are such difficult
questions,” answered Willis; “ must I speak ? Such
difficult questions,” he continued, rising into a more ani-LOSS AND GAIN.

265

mated manner, and kindling as he went on ; “I mean,
people view them so differently; it is so difficult to con-
vey to one person the idea of another. The idea of
worship is different in the Catholic Church from the
idea of it in your Church; for, in truth, the religions
are different. Don’t deceive yourself, my dear Bate-
man,” he said tenderly, “it is not that ours is your
religion carried a little farther,—a little too far, as you
would say. No, they differ in kind, not in degree;
ours is one religion, yours another. And when the
time comes, and come it will, for you, alien as you are
now, to submit yourself to the gracious yoke of Christ,
then, my dearest Bateman, it will be faith which will
enable you to bear the ways and usages of Catholics,
which else might perhaps startle you. Else, the habits of
years, the associations in your mind of a certain outward
behaviour with real inward acts of devotion, might
embarrass you, when you had to conform yourself to
other habits, and to create for yourself other associa-
tions. But this faith, of which I speak, the great gift
of God, will enable you in that day to overcome your-
self, and to submit, as your judgment, your will, your
reason, your affections, so your tastes and likings, to
the rule and usage of the Church. Ah, that faith
should be necessary in such a matter, and that what is
so natural and becoming under the circumstances, should
have need of an explanation! I declare, to me,” he
said, and he clasped his hands on his knees, and looked
forward as if soliloquising, “ to me nothing is so con-
soling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming, as the
Mass, said as it is among us. I could attend Masses for
ever, and not be tired. It is not a mere form of words,
—it is a great action, the greatest action that can be266

LOSS AND GAIN.

on earth. It is, not the invocation merely, but, if I
dare use the word, the evocation of the Eternal. He
becomes present on the altar in flesh and blood, before
whom angels bow and devils tremble. This is that
awful event which is the scope, and is the interpretation,
of every part of the solemnity. W ords are necessary, but
as means, not as ends; they are not mere addresses to
the throne of grace, they are instruments of what is far
higher, of consecration, of sacrifice. They hurry on as
if impatient to fulfil their mission. Quickly they go, the
whole is quick; for they are all parts of one integral
action. Quickly they go; for they are awful words of
sacrifice, they are a work too great to delay upon ; as
when it was said in the beginning, ‘ What thou doest,
do quickly.’ Quickly they pass; for the Lord Jesus goes
with them,as He passed along the lake in the days of His
flesh, quickly calling first one and then another. Quickly
they pass; because as the lightning which shineth
from one part of the heaven unto the other, so is the
coming of the Son of Man. Quickly they pass; for they
are as the words of Moses, when the Lord came down in
the cloud, calling on the Name of the Lord as he passed
by, ‘ The Lord, the Lord God, merciful and gracious, long-
suffering, and abundant in goodness and truth.’ And
as Moses on the mountain, so we too ‘ make haste and
bow our heads to the earth, and adore.’ So we, all
around, each in his place, look out for the great Advent,
‘ waiting for the moving of the water.’ Each in his
place, with his own heart, with his own wants, with his
own thoughts, with his own intention, with his own
prayers, separate but concordant, watching what is
going on, watching its progress, uniting in its consum-
mation ;—not painfully and hopelessly following a hardLOSS AND GAIN'.

267

form of prayer from beginning to end, but like a concert
of musical instruments, each different, but concurring in
a sweet harmony, we take our part with God’s priest,
supporting him, yet guided by him. There are little
children there, and old men, and simple labourers, and
students in seminaries, priests preparing for Mass, priests
making their thanksgiving; there are innocent maidens,
and there are penitent sinners; but out of these many
minds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great Action
is the measure and the scope of it. And oh, my dear
Bateman,” he added, turning to him, “you ask me
whether this is not a formal unreasonable service. It is
wonderful!” he cried, rising up, “quite wonderful.
"When will these dear good people be enlightened ?
O Sapientia, fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia, 0
Adonai, 0 Clavis David et Dxspectatio gentium, veni
ad sulvandum nos, Domine Deus noster.”

Now, at least, there was.no mistaking Willis. Bate-
man stared, and was almost frightened at a burst of en-
thusiasm which he had been far from expecting. “ Why,
Willis,” he said, “ it is not true, then, after all, what
we heard, that you were somewhat dubious, shaky, in
your adherence to Romanism ? I’m sure I beg your
pardon ; I would not for the world have annoyed you,
had I known the truth.” Willis’s face still glowed, and
he looked as youthful and radiant as he had been two
years before. There was nothing ungentle in his im-
petuosity ; a smile, almost a laugh, was on his face, as
if he was half ashamed of his own warmth; but this
took nothing from its evident sincerity. He seized
Bateman’s two hands, before the latter knew where he
was, lifted him up out of his seat, and raising his own
mouth close to his ear, said in a low voice, “ I would to2G8

LOSS AND GAIN.

God, that not only thou, but also all who hear me this
day, were both in little and in much such as I am, ex-
cept these chains.” Then, reminding him it had grown
late, and bidding him good night, he left the room with
Charles.

Bateman remained a while with his back to the fire
after the door had closed; presently he began to give
expression to his thoughts. “Well,” he said, “he’s
a brick, a regular brick ; he has almost affected me
myself. What a way those fellows have with them ! I
declare his touch has made my heart beat; how catching
enthusiasm is! Any one but I might really have been
unsettled. He is a real good fellow ; what a pity we
have not got him ! he’s just the sort of man we want.
He’d make a splendid Anglican ; he’d convert-half the
dissenters in the country. Well, we shall have them in
time; we must not be impatient. But the idea of his
talking of converting me ! ‘ in little and in much,’ as he
worded it! By the bye, what did he mean by ‘ except
these chains ?’” He sat ruminating on the difficulty ;
at first he was inclined to think that, after all, he might
have some misgiving about his position; then he thought
that perhaps he had a hair-shirt or a catenella on him;
and lastly he came to the conclusion that he had just
meant nothing at all, and did but finish the quotation
he had begun.

After passing some little time in this state, he looked
towards the tea-tray ; poured himself out another cup of
tea; ate a bit of toast; took the coals off the fire ; blew
out one of the candles, and taking up the other, left the
parlour, and wound like an omnibus up the steep twist-
ing staircase to his bed-room..

Meanwhile Willis and Charles were proceeding toLOSS AND GAIN.

269

their respective homes. Tor a while they had to pursue
the same path, which they did in silence. Charles had
been moved far more than Bateman, or rather touched,
by the enthusiasm of his Catholic friend, though, from a
difficulty in finding language to express himself, and a
fear of being carried off his legs, he had kept his feelings
to himself. When they were about to part, Willis said
to him in a subdued tone, “ You are soon going to
Oxford, dearest Reding; oh, that you were one with us !
You have it in you. I have thought of you at Mass
many times. Our priest has said Mass for you. Oh,
my dear friend, quench not God’s grace ; listen to His
call; you have had what others have not. What you
want is faith. I suspect you have quite proof enough;
enough to be converted on. But faith is a gift; pray
for that great gift, without which you cannot come to
the Church ; without which,” and he paused, “ you
cannot walk aright when you are in the Church. And
now farewell! alas, our path divides: all is easy to
him that believeth. May God give you that gift of faith,
as He has given me ! Farewell again; who knows
when I may see you next, and where ? may it be in the
courts of the true Jerusalem, the Queen of Saints, the
Holy Roman Church, the Mother of us all!” He drew
Charles to him, and kissed his cheek, and was gone be-
fore Charles had time to say a word.

Yet Charles could not have spoken, had he had ever
so much opportunity. He set off at a brisk pace, cutting
down with his stick the twigs and brambles which the
pale twilight discovered in his path. It seemed as if
the kiss of his friend had conveyed into his own soul the
enthusiasm which his words had betokened. He felt
himself possessed, he knew not how, by a high super-270

LOSS AND GAIN.

human power, which seemed able to push through moun-
tains, and to walk the sea. With winter around him,
he felt within like the springtide, when all is new and
bright. He perceived that he had found, what indeed
he had never sought, because he had never known what
it was, but what he had ever wanted,—a soul sympa-
thetic with his own. He felt he was no longer alone in
the world, though he was losing that true congenial
mind the very moment he had found him. Was this,
he asked himself, the communion of Saints ? Alas!
how could it be, when he was in one communion, and
Willis in another ?	“ O mighty Mother !” burst from

his lips ; he quickened his pace almost to a trot, scaling
the steep ascents and diving into the hollows which lay
between him and Boughton. “ 0 mighty Mother!” he
still said, half unconsciously; “ 0 mighty Mother ! I
come, 0 mighty Mother! I come ; but I am far from
home. Spare me a little; I come with what speed I
may, but I am slow of foot, and not as others, O mighty
Mother! ” By the time he had walked two miles in this
excitement, bodily and mental, he felt himself, as was
not wonderful, considerably exhausted. He slackened
his pace, and gradually came to himself; but still he went
on, as if mechanically, “ 0 mighty Mother! ” Suddenly
he cried, “ Hallo! where did I get these words ? Willis
did not use them. Well, I must be on my guard against
these wild ways. Any one can be an enthusiast; en-
thusiasm is not truth ... 0 mighty Mother! . . .
Alas, I know where my heart is! but I must go by
reason . . . . O mighty Mother!”loss AND GAIN.

271

CHAPTEE XXI.

The time cameaj; length for Charles to return to Oxford;
but during the last month scruples had risen in his mind,
whether, with his present feelings, he could consistently
even present himself for his examination. No subscrip-
tion was necessary for his entrance into the schools, but
he felt that the honours of the class-list were only in-
tended for those who were bona fide adherents of the
Church of England. He laid his difficulty before Carl-
ton, who in consequence did his best to ascertain tho-
roughly his present state of mind. It seemed that
Charles had no intention, either now or at any future
day, of joining the Church of Eome; that he felt he
could not take such a step at present without distinct
sin; that it would simply be against his conscience to
do so; that he had no feeling whatever that Grod called
him to do so; that he felt that nothing could justify so
serious an act but the conviction that he could not be
saved in the Church to which he belonged; that he had
no such feeling; that he had no definite case against his
own Church sufficient for leaving it, nor any definite
view that the Church of Eome was the One Church of
Christ:—that still he could not help suspecting that one
day he should think otherwise; he conceived the day
might come, nay would come, when he should have that
conviction which at present he had not, and which of
course would be a call on him to act upon it, by leaving
the Church of England for that of Eome; he could not
tell distinctly why he so anticipated, except that there
were so many things which he thought right in the
Church of Eome, and so many which he thought wrong
in the Church of England; and because, too, the more272

LOSS AND GAIN.

he had an opportunity of hearing and seeing, the greater
cause he had to admire and revere the Roman Catholic
system, and to be dissatisfied with his own. Carlton,
after carefully considering the case, advised him to go in
fof his examination. He acted thus, on the one hand,
as vividly feeling the changes which take place in the
minds of young men, and the difficulty of Reding fore-
telling his own state of opinions two years to come; and
on the other, from the reasonable anticipation that a
contrary advice would have been the very way to ripen
his present doubts on the untenableness of Anglicanism
into conviction.

Accordingly, his examination came off in due time;
the schools were full, he did well, and his class was con-
sidered to be secure. Sheffield followed soon after, and
did brilliantly. The list came out; Sheffield was in
the first class, Charles in the Becond. There is always
of necessity a good deal of accident in these matters;
but in the present case reasons enough could be given to
account for the unequal success of the two friends.
Charles had lost some time by his father’s death, and
family matters consequent upon it; and his virtual rus-
tication for the last six months had been a considerable
disadvantage to him. Moreover, though he had been a
careful, persevering reader, he certainly had not run the
race for honours with the same devotion as Sheffield ;
nor had his religious difficulties, particularly his late in-
decision about presenting himself at all, been without
their serious influence upon his attention and his energy.
As success had not been the first desire of his soul, so
failure was not his greatest misery. He would have
much preferred success; but in a day or two he found
he could well endure the want of it.LOSS AND GAIN.

273

Now came the question about his degree, which could
not be taken without subscription to the Articles.
Another consultation followed with Carlton. There was
no need of his becoming a B.A. at the moment; nothing
would be gained by it; better that he should postpone
the step. He had but to go down, and say nothing
about it; no one would be the wiser; and if, at the end
of six months, as Carlton sanguinely anticipated, he
found himself in a more comfortable frame of mind, then
let him come up, and set all right.

What was he to do with himself at the moment ?
There was little difficulty here either, what to propose.
He had better be reading with some clergyman in the
country; thus he would at once be preparing for orders,
and clearing his mind on the points which at present
troubled him; besides, he might thus have some op-
portunity for parochial duty, which would have a tran-
quillising and sobering effect on his mind. As to the
books to which he should give his attention, of course
the choice would rest with the clergyman who was to
guide him; but for himself he would not recommend the
usual works in controversy with Home, for which the
Anglican Church was famous; rather those which are
of a positive character, which treated subjects philoso-
phically, historically, or doctrinally, and displayed the
peculiar principles of that Church; Hooker’s great work,
for instance; or Bull’s Defenaio and Harmonia, or
Pearson’s Vindicia, or Jackson on the Creed, a noble
work; to which Laud on Tradition might be added,
though its form was controversial. Such, too, were
Bingham’s Antiquities, Waterland on the Use of Anti-
quity, Wall on Infant Baptism, and Palmer on the
Liturgy. Nor ought he to neglect practical and devo-

s274

LOSS AND GAIN.

tional authors, as Bishops Taylor, Wilson, and Horne.
The most important point remained; whither was he to
betake himself? did he know of any clergyman in the
country, who would be willing to receive him as a friend
and a pupil ? Charles thought of Campbell, with whom
he was on the best of terms ; and Carlton knew enough
of him by reputation, to be perfectly sure that he could
not be in safer hands.

Charles, in consequence, made the proposal to him
and it was accepted. Nothing then remained for him,
but to pay a few bills, to pack up some books which he
had left in a friend’s room, and then to bid adieu, at least
for a time, to the cloisters and groves of the University.
He quitted in June, when every thing was in that youth-
ful and fragrant beauty which he had admired so much
in the beginning of his residence three years before.PART III.

CHAPTER I.

But now we must look forward, not back. Once be-
fore we took leave to pass over nearly two years in the
life of the subject of this narrative, and now a second
and a dreary space of more than the same length shall
be consigned to oblivion, and the reader shall be set
down in the autumn of the year next but one after that
in which Charles took his class and did not take his
degree.

At this time our interest is confined to Boughton and
the Rectory at Sutton. As to Melford, friend Bateman
had accepted the incumbency of a church in a manufac-
turing town with a district of 10,000 souls, where he
was full of plans for the introduction of the surplice and
gilt candlesticks among his people. Willis also was
gone, on a different errand: he had bid adieu to his
mother and brother soon after Charles had gone into the
t schools, and now was Father Aloysius de Sancta Cruce
in the Passionist Convent of Pennington.

One evening, at the end of September, in the year
aforesaid, Campbell had called at Boughton, and was
walking in the garden with Miss Reding. “Really,
Mary,” he said to her, “ I don’t think it does any good
to keep him. The best years of his life are going, and,
humanly speaking, there is not any chance of his chang-
ing his mind, at least till he has made a trial pf the276

LOSS AND GAIN.

Church of Borne. It is quite possible that experience
may drive him back.” “ It is a dreadful dilemma,” she
answered; “ how can we even indirectly give him per-
mission to take so fatal a step ?”	“ He is a dear good

fellow,” he made reply; “ he is a sterling fellow; all
this long time that he has been with me, he has made no
difficulties; he has read thoroughly the books that I re-
commended and more, and done whatever I told him.
You know I have employed him in the parish; he has
taught the Catechism to the children, and been almoner.
Poor fellow, his health is suffering now: he sees there’s
no end of it, and hope deferred makes the heart sick.”
“ It is so dreadful to give any countenance to what is so
very wrong,” said Mary. “ Why, what is to be done ? ”
answered Campbell; “ and we need not countenance
it; he can’t be kept in leading-strings for ever, and
there has been a kind of bargain. He wanted to make
a move at the end of the first year;—I didn’t think it
worth while to fidget you about it;—but I quieted him.
We compounded in this way: he removed his name
from the college-boards,—there was not the slightest
chance of his ever signing the Articles,—and he con-
sented to wait another year. Now the time’s up, and
more, and he is getting impatient. So it’s not we who
shall be giving him countenance, it will only be his leav-
ing us.” “ But it is so fearful,” insisted Mary; “ and
my poor mother—I declare I think it will be her death.”
“ It will be a crushing blow, there’s no doubt of that,”
said Campbell; “ what does she know of it at present ?”
“ I hardly can tell you,” answered she; “ she has been
informed of it indeed distinctly a year ago; but seeing
Charles so often, and he in appearance just the same, I
fear she does not realise it. She has never spoken toLOSS AND GAIN.

277

me on the subject. I fancy she thinks it a scruple;
troublesome, certainly, but of course temporary.” “ I
must break it to her, Mary,” said Campbell. “ Well,
I think it must be done,” she replied, heaving a sudden
sigh; “ and if so, it will be a real kindness in you to
save me a lask to which I am quite unequal. But have
a talk with Charles first. When it comes to the point,
he may have a greater difficulty than he thinks before-
hand.” And so it was settled; and, full of care at the
double commission with which he was charged, Camp-
bell rode back to Sutton.

Poor Charles was sitting at an open window, looking
out upon the prospect, when Campbell entered the room.
It was a beautiful landscape, with bold hills in the dis-
tance, and a rushing river beneath him. Campbell
came up to him without his perceiving it; and putting
his hand on his shoulder, asked his thoughts. Charles
turned round, and smiled sadly. “ I am like Moses
seeing the land,” he said; “my dear Campbell, when
shall the end be ? ” “ That, my good Charles, of course
does not rest with me,” answered Campbell. “ Well,”
said he, “the year is long run out; may I go my way ? ”
“ Tou can’t expect that I, or any of us, should even in-
directly countenance you in what, with all our love of
you, we think a sin,” said Campbell. “ That is as
much as to say, ‘ Act for yourself,’ ” answered Charles ;
“ well, I am willing.” Campbell did not at once reply;
then he said, “ I shall have to break it to your
poor mother; Mary thinks it will be her death.”
Charles dropped his head on the window-sill upon his
hands. “No,” he said ; “I trust that she, and all of
us, will be supported.” “ So do I fervently,” answered
Campbell; “ it will be a most terrible blow to your278

LOSS AND GAIN.

sisters. My dear fellow, should you not take all this
into account ? Do seriously consider the actual misery
you are causing for possible good.” “ Do you think I
have not considered it, Campbell ? Is it nothing for
one like me to be breaking all these dear ties, and to
be losing the esteem and sympathy of so many persons
I love? Oh, it has been a most piercing thought; but
I have exhausted it, I have drank it out. I have got
familiar with the prospect now, and am fully reconciled.
Tes, I give up home, I give up all who have ever known
me, loved me, valued me, wished me well; I know well
I am making myself a bye-word and an outcast.” “ Oh,
my dear Charles,” answered Campbell, “ beware of a
very subtle temptation which may come on you here.
I have meant to warn you of it before. The greatness
of the sacrifice stimulates you ; you do it because it is
so much to do.” Charles smiled. “ How little you
know me!” he said, “ if that were the case, should I
have waited patiently two years and more ? Why did
I not rush forward as others have done ? You will not
deny that I have acted rationally, obediently. I have put
the subject from me again and again, and it has returned.”
“I’ll say nothing harsh or unkind of you, Charles,”
said Campbell; “ but it’s a most unfortunate delusion.
I wish I could make you take in the idea that there is
the chance of it’s being a delusion.” “ Ah, Campbell,
how can you forget so ? ” answered Charles; “ don’t
you know, this is the very thing which has influenced
me so much all along ? I said, ‘ Perhaps I am in a
dream. Oh, that I could pinch myself and awake! ’
You know what stress I laid on my change of feeling
upon my dear father’s death; what I thought to be con-
victions before, vanished then like a cloud. I have saidLOSS AND GAIN.

279

to myself, ‘ Perhaps these will vanish too.’ But no ;
‘ the clouds return after the rain ; ’ they come again and
again, heavier than ever. It is a conviction rooted in
me ; it endures against the prospect of loss of mother
and sisters. Here I sit wasting my days, when I might
be useful in life. Why ? Because this hinders me.
Lately it has increased on me tenfold. You will be
shocked, but let me tell you in confidence,—lately I have
been quite afraid to ride, or to bathe, or to do anything
out of the way, lest something should happen, and I
might be taken away with a great duty unaccomplished.
No, by'this time I have proved that it is a real convic-
tion. My belief in the Church of Borne is part of my-
self ; I cannot act against it without acting against
God.” “It is a most deplorable state of things
certainly,” said Campbell, who had begun to walk up
and down the room ; “ that it is a delusion, I am confi-
dent ; perhaps you are to find it so just when you have
taken the step. You will solemnly bind yourself to a
foreign creed, and, as the words part from your mouth,
the mist will roll up from before your eyes, and the
truth will show itself. How dreadful!” “I have
thought of that too,” said Charles, “ and it has in-
fluenced me a great deal. It has made me shrink back.
But I now believe it to be like those hideous forms
which in fairy tales beset good knights, when they
would force their way into some enchanted palace. Be-
collect the words in Thalaba—‘The talisman is faith.'
If I have good grounds for believing, to believe is a
duty; God will take care of His own work. I shall
not be deserted in ray utmost need. Paith ever begins
with a venture, and is rewarded with sight.” “ Yes,
my good Charles,” answered Campbell; “ but the ques-280

LOSS AND GAIN.

tion is, whether your grounds are good. What I mean
is, that, since they are not good, they will not avail you
in the trial. You will then, too late, find they are not
good, but delusive.” “ Campbell,” answered Charles,
“ I consider that all reason comes from God; our
grounds must at best be imperfect; but if they appear
to be sufficient after prayer, diligent search, obedience,
waiting, and in short, doing our part, they are His voice
calling us on. He it is, in that case, who makes them
seem convincing to us. I am in His hands. The only
question is, what would He have me to do? I
cannot resist the conviction which is upon me. This
last week it has possessed me in a different way
than ever before. It is now so strong, that to
wait longer is to resist God. Whether I join the
Catholic Church is now simply a question of days. I
wish, dear Campbell, to leave you in peace and love.
Therefore, consent; let me go.” “ Let you go ! ”
answered Campbell; “ certainly, were it the Catholic
Church to which you are going, there would be no need
to ask ; ‘ but let you go,’ how can you expect it from us
when we do not think so ? Think of our case, Charles,
as well as your own; throw yourself into our state of
feeling. Lor myself I cannot deny, I never have con-
cealed from you my convictions, that theRomish Church
is anti-christian. She has ten thousand gifts, she is in
many respects superior to our own; but she has a some-
thing in her which spoils all. I have no confidence in
her ; and that being the case, how can I ‘ let you go ’ to
her? No; it’s like a person saying, ‘Let me go and
hang myself; ’ ‘let me go sleep in a fever-ward; ’ ‘let
me jump into that well; ’ how can I ‘let you go?’”
“ Ah,” said Charles, “ that’s our dreadful difference;LOSS AND GAIN.

281

we can’t get further than that. I think the Church of
Rome the Prophet of God; you, the tool of the devil.”
“ I own,” said Campbell, “ I do think that, if you take
this step, you will find yourself in the hands of a Circe,
who will change you, make a brute of you.” Charles
slightly coloured. “ I won’t go on,” added Campbell;
“ I pain you ; it’s no good; perhaps I am making mat-
ters worse.” Neither spoke for some time. At length
Charles got up, came up to Campbell, took his hand,
and kissed it. “ You have been a kind, disinterested
friend to me for two years,” he said; “ you have given me
a lodging under your roof; and now we are soon to be
united by closer ties. God reward you ; but ‘ let me
go, for the day breaketh.’” “It is hopeless!” cried
Campbell; “ let us part friends: I must break it to
your mother.”

In ten days after this conversation, Charles was ready
for his journey ; his room put to rights; his portman-
teau strapped; and a gig at the door, which was to
take him the first stage. He was to go round by Bough-
ton ; it had been arranged by Campbell and Mary, that
it would be best for him not to see his mother (to whom
Campbell had broken the matter at once) till he took
leave of her. It would be needless pain to both of them
to attempt an interview sooner.

Charles leapt from the gig with a beating heart, and
ran up to his mother’s room. She was sitting by the
fire at her work, when he entered ; she held out her hand
coldly to him, and he sat down. Nothing was said for
a little while; then, without leaving ofi" her occupation,
she said, “Well, Charles, and so you are leaving us.
Where and how do you propose to employ yourself when
you have entered upon your new life ? ” Charles282

LOSS AND GAIN.

answered that he had not yet turned his mind to the con-
sideration of any thing hut the great step on which every
thing else depended. There was another silence ; then
she said, “ You won’t find any where such friends
as you have had at home, Charles.” Presently she con-
tinued, “You have had every thing in your favour,
Charles; you have been blessed with talents, advan-
tages of education, easy circumstances ; many a de-
serving young man has to scramble on as he can.”
Charles answered that he was deeply sensible how much
he owed in temporal matters to Providence, and that it
was only at His bidding that he was giving them up.
“We all looked up to you, Charles; perhaps we made
too much of you; well, God he with you; you have
taken your line.” Poor Charles said that no one could
conceive what it cost him to give up what was so very
dear to him, what was part of himself; there was nothing
on earth which he prized like his home. “Then why
do you leave us ? ” she said quickly ; “you must have
your way; you doit, I suppose, because you like it.”
“ Oh really, my dear mother,” cried he, “ if you saw
ray heart! You know in Scripture how people were
obliged in the Apostles’ times, to give up all for Christ.”
“We are heathens, then,” she replied; “thank you,
Charles, I am obliged to you for this;” and she dashed
away a tear from her eye. Charles was almost beside
himself; he did not know what to say; he stood up,
and leaned his elbow on the mantel-piece, supporting his
head on his hand. “ Well, Charles,” she continued,
still going on with her work, “ perhaps the day will
come” . . . her voice faltered; “your dear father”
. . . she put down her work. “ It is useless misery,”
said Charles ; “ why should I stay ? good-bye for theLOSS AND GAIN.

283

present, my dearest mother. I leave you in good hands,
not kinder, but better than mine; you lose me, you gain
another. Farewell for the present; we will meet when
you will, when you call; it will be a happy meeting.”
He threw himself on his knees, and laid his cheek on her
lap; she could no longer resist him; she hung over
him, and began to smooth down his hair as she had
done when he was a child. At length scalding tears
began to fall heavily upon his face and neck ; he bore
them for a while, then started up, kissed her cheek im-
petuously, and rushed out of the room. In a few seconds
he had seen and had tom himself from his sisters, and
was in his gig again by the side of his phlegmatic driver,
dancing slowly up and down on his way to Collumpton.

CHAPTER II.

The reader may ask whither Charles is going, and,
though it would not be quite true to answer that he did
not know better than the said reader himself, yet he had
most certainly very indistinct notions what was becoming
of him even locally, and, like the Patriarch, “ went out,
not knowing whither he went.” He had nevei^seen a
Catholic Priest, to know him, in his life ; never, except
once as a boy, been inside a Catholic church ; he only
knew one Catholic in the world, and where he was he
did not know. But he knew that the Passionists had a
Convent in London; and it was not unnatural that,
without knowing whether young Father Aloysius was
there or not, he should direct his course to San Michaele.

Yet, in kindness to Mary and all of them, he did
not profess to be leaving direct for London; but he284

LOSS AND GAIN.

proposed to betake himself to Carlton, who still resided
in Oxford, and to ask his advice what was to be done
under his circumstances. It seemed, too, to be interpo-
sing what they would consider a last chance of averting
what to them was so dismal a calamity.

To Oxford, then, he directed his course; and having
some accidental business at Bath, he stopped there
for the night, intending to continue his journey next
morning. Among other jobs, he had to get a ‘ Garden
of the Soul,’ and two or three similar books which might
help him in the great preparation which awaited his
arrival inLondon. Hewentintoareligious publisher’s
in Danvers Street with that object, and, while engaged
in a back part of the shop in looking over a pile of
Catholic works, which, to the religious public, had in-
ferior attractions to the glittering volumes, evangelical
and Anglo-Catholic, which had possession of the windows
and principal table, he heard the shop-door open, and,
on looking round, saw a familiar face. It was that of a
young clergyman, with a very pretty girl on his arm,
whom her dress pronounced to be a bride. Love was
in their eyes, joy in their voice, and affluence in their
gait and bearing. Charles had a faintish feeling come
over him; somewhat such as might beset a man on
hearing a call for pork-chops when he was sea-sick. He
retreated behind a pile of ledgers and other stationery,
but they could not save him from the low, thrilling tones
which from time to time passed from one to the other.

“ Have you got some of the last Oxford reprints of
standard works ?” said the bridegroom to the shopman.
“ Yes, sir; but which set did you mean ? ‘ Selections
from old divines,’ or‘New Catholic Adaptations?”’
“ Oh, not the Adaptations,” answered he, “ they areLOSS AND GAIN.

285

extremely dangerous ; I mean real Church-of-England
divinity—Bull, Patrick, Hooker, and the rest of them.”
The shopman went to look them out. “ I think it was
those Adaptations, dearest,” said the lady, “ that the
Bishop warned us against.” “ Not the Bishop, Louisa ;
it was his daughter.” “ Oh, Miss Primrose, so it was,”
said she; “ and there was one book she recommended,
what was it ?”	“ Not a book, love ; it was a speech,”

said White ; “ Mr. O’Ballaway’s at Exeter Hall; but
I think we should not quite like it.” “ No, no, Henry,
it was a book, dear; I can’t recal the name.” “ You
mean Dr. Crow’s ‘ New Refutation of Popery,’ perhaps;
but the Bishop recommended that.”

The shopman returned. “ Oh, what a sweet face!”
she said, looking at the frontispiece of a little book she
got hold of; “ do look, Henry dear; whom does it put
you in mind of?” “ Why, it’s meant for St. John the
Baptist,” said Henry. “ It’s so like little Angelina Prim-
rose,” said she, “the hair is just hers. I wonder it
doesn’t strike you.” “ It does—it does, dearest,” said
he, smiling at her; “ but it’s getting late; you must not
be out much longer in the sharp air, and you have no-
thing for your throat. I have chosen my books, while
you have been gazing on that little St. John.” “ I can’t
think who it is so like,” continued she ; “ oh, I know;
it’s Angelina’s aunt, Lady Constance.” “ Come, Louisa,
the horses too'will suffer; we must return to our friends.”
“ Oh, there’s one book, I can’t recollect it; tell me what
it is, Henry. I shall be so sorry not to have got it.”
“ Was it the new work on Gregorian Chants ?” asked
he. “ Ah, it’s true, I want it for the school-children,
but it’s not that.” “ Is it£ The Catholic Parsonage ? ’”
he asked again; “ or, ‘ Lays of the Apostles ?’ or, ‘ The286

LOSS AND GAIN.

English Church older than the Roman ? ’ or, ‘ Anglican-
ism of the Early Martyrs ? ’ or, ‘ Confessions of a Per-
vert ?’ or, ‘Eustace Beville?’ or, ‘Modified Celibacy
“ No, no, no,” said Louisa; “ dear me, it is so stupid.”
“Well, now really, Louisa,” he insisted, “you must
come another time; it won’t do, dearest; it won’t do.”
“ph, I recollect,” she said, “I recollect—‘Abbeys
and Abbots ;’ I want to get some hints for improving
the rectory-windows, when we get home; and our church
wants, you know, a porch for the poor people. The
book is full of designs.” The book was found, and added
to the rest, which had been already taken to the car-
riage. “Now, Louisa,” said White. “Well, dearest,
there’s one more place we must call at,” she made
answer; “ tell John to drive to Sharp’s; we can go
round by the Nursery—it’s only a few steps out of the
way—I want to say a word to the man there about our
greenhouse ; there is no good gardener in our own neigh-
bourhood.” “ What is the good, Louisa, now ?” said
her husband; “ we shan’t be at home this month to
come and then, with due resignation, he directed the
coachman to the nurseryman’s whom Louisa named, as
he put her into the carriage, and then followed her.

Charles breathed freely as they went out; a severe
text of Scripture rose on his mind, but he repressed the
censorious or uncharitable feeling, and turned himself to
the anxious duties which lay before him.

CHAPTER III.

Nothing happened to Charles worth relating before his
arrival at Steventon next day; when, the afternoonLOSS AND GAIN.

287

being fine, be left bis portmanteau to follow bim by tbe
omnibus, and put himself upon tbe road. If it required
some courage to undertake by himself a long journey on
an all-momentous errand, it did not lessen tbe difficulty
that that journey took in its way a place and a person
so dear to him as Oxford and Carlton.

He had passed through Bagley Wood, and the spireB
and towers of the University came on his view, hallowed
by how many tender associations, lost to him for two
whole years, suddenly recovered—recovered to be lost
for ever! There lay old Oxford before him, with its
hills as gentle and its meadows as green as ever. At
the first view of that beloved place, he stood still with
folded arms, unable to proceed. Each college, each
church, he counted them by their pinnacles and turrets.
The silver Isis, the grey willows, the far-stretching plains,
the dark groves, the distant range of Shotover, the plea-
sant village where he had lived with Carlton and Shef-
field—wood, water, stone, all so calm, so bright, they
might have been his, but his they were not. Whatever
he was to gain by becoming a Catholic, this he had lost;
whatever he was to gain higher and better, at least this
and such as this he never could have again. He could
not have another Oxford, he could not have the friends
of his boyhood and youth in the choice of his manhood.
He mounted the well-known gate on the left, and pro-
ceeded down into the plain. There was no one to greet
him, to sympathise with him; there was no one to
believe he needed sympathy; no one to believe he had
given up any thing; no one to take interest in him, to
feel tender towards him, to defend him. He had suf-
fered much, but there was no one to believe that he had
suffered. He would be thought to be inflicting merely,288

LOSS AND GAIN.

not undergoing, suffering. He might say that he had
suffered; but he would be rudely told, that every one
follows his own will, and that if he had given up Oxford,
it was for a whim which he liked better than it. But
rather, there was no one to know him; he had been
virtually three years away; three years is a generation;
Oxford had been his place once, but his place knew him
no more. He recollected with what awe and transport
he had at first come to the University as to some sacred
shrine; and how from time to time hopes had come over
him that some day or other he should have gained a title
to residence on one of its ancient foundations. One
night, in particular, came across his memory, how a
friend and he had ascended to the top of one of its many
towers with the purpose of making observations on the
stars; and how, while his friend was busily engaged with
the pointers, he, earthly-minded youth, had been looking
down into the deep, gas-lit, dark-shadowed quadrangles,
and wondering if he should ever be Fellow of this or that
College, which he singled out from the mass of academi-
cal buildings. All had passed as a dream, and he was
a stranger where he had hoped to have had a home.

He was drawing near Oxford; he saw along the road
before him brisk youths pass, two and two, with elastic
tread, finishing their modest daily walk, and nearing the
city. "What had been a tandem a mile back, next crossed
his field of view, shorn of its leader. Presently a stately
cap and gown loomed in the distance; he had gained
the road before it crossed him; it was a college-tutor
whom he had known a little. Charles expected to be
recognised; but the resident passed by with that half-
conscious, uncertain gaze which seemed to have some
memory of a face which yet was strange. He hadLOSS AND GAIN.

289

passed Polly Bridge; troops of horsemen overtook him,
talking loud, while with easy jaunty pace they turned
into their respective stables. He crossed to Christ
Church, and penetrated to Peckwater. The evening
was still bright, and the gas was lighting. Groups of
young men were stationed here and there, the greater
number in hat, a few in caps, one or two with gowns in
addition. Some were hallooing up to their companions
at the windows of the second story ; scouts were carry-
ing about ceger dinners; pastry-cook boys were bringing
in desserts; shabby fellows with Blenheim puppies were
loitering under Canterbury Gate. Many stared, but no
one knew him. He hurried up Oriel Lane; suddenly a
start and a low bow from a passer-by; who could it be ?
it was a superannuated shoeblack of his college, to whom
he had sometimes given a stray shilling. He gained the
High Street, and turned down to wards the Angel. What
was approaching ? the vision of a proctor. Charles felt
some instinctive quiverings; but it passed by him, and
did no harm. Like Kehama, he had a charmed life.
And now he had reached his inn, where he found his
portmanteau all ready for him. He chose a bed-room,
and, after fully inducting himself into it, turned his
thoughts towards dinner.

He wished to lose no time, but, if possible, to proceed
to London the following morning. It would be a great
point if he could get to his journey’s end so early in the
week, that by Sunday, if he was thought worthy, he
might offer up his praises for the mercies vouchsafed to
him, in the great and holy communion of the Universal
Church. Accordingly he determined to make an attempt
on Carlton that evening; and hoped, if he went to his
room between seven and eight, to find him returned from290

LOSS AND GAIN.

Common Room. "With this intention he sallied out at
about the half hour, gained Carlton’s college, knocked
at the gate, entered, passed on, up the worn wooden
steep staircase. The oak was closed; he descended,
found a servant; “Mr. Carlton was giving a dinner
in Common Room; it would soon be over.” Charles
determined to wait for him.

The servant lighted candles in the inner room; and
Charles sat down at the fire. Eor a while he sat in
reflection; then he looked about for something to
occupy him. His eye caught an Oxford paper; it
was but a few days old. “ Let us see how the old place
goes on,” he said to himself, as he took it up. He
glanced from one article to another, looking who were
the University-preachers of the week, who had taken
degrees, who were public examiners, etc., etc., when his
eye was arrested by the following paragraph:

“Defection feom the Chubch.—We understand
that another victim has lately been added to the list
of those whom the venom of Tractarian principles has
precipitated into the bosom of the Sorceress of Rome.
Mr. Reding, of St. Saviour’s, the son of a respectable
clergyman of the Establishment, deceased, after eating
the bread of the Church all his life, has at length
avowed himself the subject and slave of an Italian
Bishop. Disappointment in the schools is said to have
been the determining cause of this infatuated act. It
is reported that legal measures are in progress for
directing the penalties of the Statute of Praemunire
against all the seceders; and a proposition is on foot
for petitioning her Majesty to assign the sum thereby
realised by the Government, to the erection of a
‘ Martyrs’ Memorial ’ in the sister University.”LOSS AND GAIN.

291

“ So,” thought Charles, “ the world, as usual, is
beforehand with me;” and he sat speculating about
the origin of the report, till he almost forgot that he
was waiting for Carlton.

CHlPTEE IV.

While Charles was learning in Carlton’s rooms the
interest which the world took in his position and acts,
he was actually furnishing a topic of conversation to
that portion of it which was assembled in social meeting
in the neighbouring Common Eoom. Tea and coffee
had made their appearance, the guesfs had risen from
table, and were crowding round the fire. “Who is
that Mr. Eeding, spoken of in the ‘ Gazette ’ of last
week ?” feaid a prim little man, sipping his tea with his
spoon, and rising on his toes as he spoke. “ Tou need not
go far for an answer,” said his neighbour, and, turning
to their host, added, “Carlton, who is Mr. Eeding?”
“ A very dear honest fellow,” answered Carlton: “ I
wish we were all of us as good. He read with me one
Long Vacation, is a good scholar, and ought to have
gained his class. I have not heard of him for some
time.” “ He has other friends in the room,” said
another: “I think,” turning to a young Eellow of
Leicester, “ you, Sheffield, were at one time intimate
with Eeding.” “ Yes,” answered Sheffield; “and
Vincent of course knows him too; he’s a capital fellow;
I know him exceedingly well; what the ‘ Gazette ’ says
about him is shameful. I never met a man who cared
less about success in the schools; it was quite his
fault.” “That’s about the truth,” said another; “I
x 2292

LOSS AND GAIN.

met Mr. Malcolm yesterday at dinner, and it seems lie
knows the family. He said that his religious notions
carried Eeding away, and spoiled his reading.”

The conversation was not general; it went on in
detached groups, as the guests stood together. Nor
was the subject a popular one ; rather it was either a
painful or a disgusting subject to the whole party, two
or three curious and hard minds excepted, to whom
opposition to Catholicism was meat and drink. Besides,
in such chance collections of men, no one knew exactly
his neighbour’s opinion about it; and, as in this in-
stance, there were often friends of the accused or
calumniated present. And moreover, there was a
generous feeling, and a consciousness how much
seceders from the Anglican Church were giving up,
which kept down any disrespectful mention of them.

“Are you to do much in the schools this term?”
said one to another. “ I don’t know: we have two
men going up, good scholars.” “ Who has come into
Stretton’s place ?” “ Jackson of King’s.” “ Jackson ?
indeed; he’s strong in science, I think.” “Very/*
“ Our men know their books well, but I should not say
that science is their line.” “Leicester sends four.”
“ It will be a large class-list, from what I hear.” “ Ah!
indeed! the Michaelmas paper is always a good one.”
Meanwhile the conversation was in another quarter
dwelling upon poor Charles. “No, depend upon it,
there’s more in what the ‘ Gazette ’ says than you think.
Disappointment is generally at the bottom of these
changes.” “Poor devils! they can’t help it,” said
another in a low voice, to his neighbour. “A good
riddance, any how,” said the party addressed; “ we shall
have a little peace at last.” “ Well,” said the first ofLOSS AND GAIN.

293

the two, drawing himself up and speaking in the air,

“ how any educated man should ”—his voice was over-
powered by the grave enunciation of a small man be-
hind them, who had hitherto kept silence, and now
spoke with positiveness. He addressed himself, between
the two heads which had just been talking in private, to
the group beyond them. “ It’s all the effect of ration-
alism,” he said ; “the whole movement is rationalistic.
At the end of three years, all those persons who have
now apostatised will be infidels.” No one responded; at
length another of the party came up to Mr. Malcolm’s
acquaintance, and said slowly, “ I suppose you never
heard it hinted that there is something wrong here in
Mr. Keding,” touching his forehead significantly; “I
have been told it’s in the family.” He was answered
by a deep, powerful ..voice, belonging to a person who
sat in the corner; it sounded like “ the great bell of
Bow,” as if it ought to have closed the conversation. It
said abruptly, “ I respect him uncommonly; I have an
extreme respect for him. He’s an honest man; I wish
others were as honest. If they were, then, as the
Puseyites are becoming Catholics, so we should see old
Brownside and his clique becoming Unitarians. But
they mean to stick in.”

Most persons present felt the truth of his remark, and
a silence followed it for a while. It was broken by a
clear cackling voice. “ Did you ever hear,” said he,
nodding his head, or rather his whole person, as he
spoke, “ did you ever, Sheffield, happen to hear that
this gentleman, your friend Mr. Keding, when he was
quite a freshman, had a conversation with some attache
of the Popish Chapel in this place, at the very door of
it, after the men were gone down?” “Impossible,294

LOSS AND GAIN.

Fusby,” said Carlton, and laughed. “ It’s quite true,”
returned Fusby; “I had it from the Under-Marshal,
who was passing at the moment. My eye has been on
Mr. Beding for some years.” “So it seems,” said
Sheffield, “ for that must have been at least, let me see,
five or six years ago.” “ Oh,” continued Fushy, “ there
are two or three more yet to come; you will see.”
“ Why, Fusby,” said Vincent, overhearing and coming
up, “ you are like the three old crones in the Bride of
Lammermoor, who wished to have the straiking of the
Master of Bavenswood.” Fusby nodded his person, hut
made no answer. “Not all three at once, I hope,”
said Sheffield. “ Oh, it’s quite a concentration, a
quintessence of Protestant feeling,” answered Vincent;
“ I consider myself a good Protestant; hut the pleasure
you have in hunting these men is quite sensual, Fusby.”
The Common Boom man here entered, and whispered to
Carlton that a stranger was waiting for him in his
rooms.

“ When do your men come up ? ” said Sheffield to
Vincent. “ Next Saturday,” answered Vincent. “They
always come up late,” said Sheffield. “Yes, the House
met last week.” “ St. Michael’s has met too,” said
Sheffield: “ so have we.” “ We have a reason for meet-
ing late, many of our men come from the north and
from Ireland.” “ That’s no reason, with railroads.”
“ I see they have begun our rail,” Baid Vincent; “ I
thought the University had opposed it.” “ The Pope
has given in,” said Sheffield, “ so we may well do the
Bame.” “ Don’t talk of the Pope,” said Vincent, “ I’m
sick of the Pope.” “ The Pope ? ” said Fusby, over-
hearing ; “ have you heard that his Holiness is coming
to England ? ” “ Oh, oh,” cried Vincent, “ come, I can’tLOSS AND GAIN.

295

stand this. I must go; good night t’you, Carlton:
where’s my gown ? ” “I believe the Common Room
man has hung it up in the passage ; but you should
stop and protect me from Fusby.” Neither did Vincent
turn to the rescue, nor did Fusby profit by the hint; so
poor Carlton, with the knowledge that he was wanted
in his rooms, had to stay a good half hour tete-a-tete
with the latter, while he prosed to him in extenso
about Pope Gregory XVI., the Jesuits, suspected men
in the University, Mede on the Apostasy, the Catholic
[Relief Bill, Dr. Pusey’s Tract on Baptism, justification,
and the appointment of the Taylor Professors.

At length, however, Carlton was released. He ran
across the quadrangle and up his staircase; flung open
his door, and made his way to his inner room. A
person was just rising to meet him; impossible! but it
was though. “What? Reding!” he cried; “who
would have thought! what a pleasure! we were just—
. . . What brings you here ? ” he added in an altered
tone. Then gravely, “ Reding, where are you ? ” “ Not
yet a Catholic,” said Reding. There was a silence;
the answer conveyed a good deal: it was a relief, but it
was an intimation. “ Sit down, my dear Reding; will
you have any thing ? have you dined ? What a pleasure
to see you, old fellow! Are we really to lose you?”
They were soon in conversation on the great subject.

CHAPTER V.

“ If you have made up your mind, Reding,” said Carl-
ton, “ it’s no good talking. May you be happy wherever296

L03S AND GAIK.

you are! You must always be yourself; as a Roman-
ist, you will still be Charles Reding.” “I know I
have a kind, sympathising friend in you, Carlton. You
have always listened to me, never snubbed me except
when I deserved it. You know more about me than any
one else. Campbell is a dear good fellow, and will soon
be dearer to me still. It isn’t generally known yet, but he
is to marry my sister. He has borne with me now for two
years; never been hard upon me; always been at my ser-
vice when I wanted to talk with him. But no one makes
me open my heart as you do, Carlton; you sometimes
have differed from me, but you have always understood
me.” “ Thank you for your kind words,” answered
Carlton ; “ but to me it is a perfect mystery why you
should leave us. I enter into your reasons; I cannot,
for the life of me, see how you come to your conclusion.”
“ To me, on the other hand, Carlton, it is like two and
two make four; and you make two and two five, and
are astonished that I won’t agree with you.” “We must
leave these things to a higher power,” said Carlton; “ I
hope we sha’n’t be less friends, Reding, when you are in
another communion. We know each other; these out-
ward things cannot change us.” Reding sighed; he saw
clearlythat his change of religion, when completed, would
not fail to have an effect on Carlton’s thoughts about him,
as on those of others. It could not possibly be otherwise:
he was sure himself to feel different about Carlton.

After a while, Carlton said gently, “ Is it quite im-
possible, Reding, that now at the eleventh hour we may
retain you ? what are your grounds ? ”	“ Don’t let us

argue, dear Carlton,” answered Reding; “ I have done
with argument. Or, if I must say something for man-
ners’ sake, I will but tell you that I have fulfilled yourLOSS AND GAIN.

297

request. Tou bade me read the Anglican divines; I
have given a great deal of time to them, and I am em-
bracing that creed which alone is the scope to which
they converge in their separate teaching; the creed
which upholds the divinity of tradition with Laud, con-
sent of Fathers with Beveridge, a visible Church with
Bramhall, a tribunal of dogmatic decisions with Bull,
the authority of the Pope with Thorndike, penance with
Taylor, prayers for the dead with TJssher, celibacy, asce-
ticism, ecclesiastical discipline with Bingham. I seek a
Church, which in these, and a multitude of other points,
is nearer the apostolic Church than any existing one;
which is the continuation of the apostolic Church, if it
has been continued at all. And seeing it to be like the
apostolic Church, I believe it to be the same. Reason
has gone first, faith is to follow.”

He stopped, and Carlton did not reply; a silence en-
sued, and Charles at length broke it. “ I repeat, it’s
no use arguing; I have made up my mind, and been
very slow about it. I have broken it to my mother, and
bade her farewell. All is determined; I cannot go
back.” “ Is that a nice feeling ? ” said Carlton half
reproachfully. “ Understand me,” answered Reding;
“ I have come to my resolution with great deliberation.
It has remained on my mind as a mere intellectual con-
clusion for a year or two ; surely now at length without
blame I may change it into a practical resolve. But
none of us can answer that those habitual and ruling
convictions, on which it is our duty to act, will remain
before our consciousness every moment, when we come
into the hurry of the world, and are assailed by induce-
ments and motives of various kinds. Therefore I say
that the time of argument is past; I act on a conclusion298

LOSS AND GAIN.

already drawn.” “ But how do you know,” asked
Carlton, “but what you have been unconsciously biassed
in arriving at it ? one notion has possessed you, and you
have not been able to shake it off. The ability to re-
tain your convictions in the bustle of life is to my mind
the very test, the necessary test of their reality.” “ I
do, I do retain them,” answered Reding; “they are
always upon me.” “ Only at times, as you have yourself
confessed,” objected Carlton: “ surely you ought to have
a very strong conviction indeed, to set against the mis-
chief you are doing by a step of this kind. Consider
how many persons you are unsettling; what a triumph
you are giving to the enemies of all religion ; what en-
couragement to the notion that there is no such thing
as truth ; how you are weakening our Church. Well, all
I say is, that you should have very strong convictions
to set against all this.” “ Well,” said Charles, “ I grant,
I maintain, that the only motive which is sufficient
to justify such an act, is the conviction that one’s sal-
vation depends on it. Now, I speak sincerely, my dear
Carlton, in saying, that I don’t think I shall be saved,
if I remain, in the English Church.” “Do you mean
that there is no salvation in our Church ? ” said Carl-
ton, rather coldly. “No, but I am talking of myself; it’s
not my place to judge others. I only say, God calls
me, and I must follow at the risk of my soul.” “ God
‘ calls ’ you! ” said Carlton; what does that mean ? I
don’t like it; it’s dissenting language.” “ You know it is
Scripture language,” answered Reding. “Yes, but peo-
ple don’t in Scripture say ‘ I’m called ; ’ the calling was
an act from without, the act of others, not an inward
feeling.” “ But, my dear Carlton, how is a person to
get at truth, now, when there can be no simple outwardLOSS AND GAIN.

299

call ?” “ That seems to me a pretty good intimation,”
answered Carlton, “ that we are to remain where Pro-
vidence has placed us.” “ Now this is just one of the
points on which I can’t get at the bottom of the Church
of England’s doctrine,” Reding replied. “But it’s so
on so many other subjects ! it’s always so. Are mem-
bers of the Church of England to seek the truth, or have
they it given them from the first ? do they seek it for
themselves ? or is it ready provided for them ?”

Carlton thought a moment, and seemed doubtful what
to answer ; then he said that we must of course seek it.
It was a part of our moral probation to seek the truth.
“ Then don’t talk to me about our position,” said Charles;
“ I hardly expected you to make this answer; but it is
what the majority of Church-of-England people say.
They tell us to seek, they give us rules for seeking, they
make us exert our private judgment; but directly we
come to any conclusion but theirs, they turn round and
talk to us of our ‘ providential position.’ But there’s
another thing. Tell me, supposing we ought all to seek
the truth, do you think that members of the English
Church do seek it in that way which Scripture enjoins
upon all seekers ? Think how very seriously Scripture
speaks of the arduousness of finding, the labour of seek-
ing, the duty of thirsting after the truth ? I don’t be-
lieve the bulk of the English clergy, the bulk of Oxford
residents, Heads of houses, Fellows of Colleges (with all
their good points, which I am not the man to deny),
have ever sought the truth. They have taken what
they found, and have used no private judgment at all.
Or if they have judged, it has been in the vaguest, most
cursory way possible; or they have looked into Scrip-
ture only to find proofs for what they were bound to sub-300

LOSS AND GAIN.

scribe, as undergraduates getting up the Articles. Then
they sit over their wine, and talk about this or that
friend who has ‘ seceded,’ and condemn him, and ”
(glancing at the newspaper on the table) “ assign mo-
tives for his conduct. Yet, after all, which is the more
likely to be right,—he who has given years, perhaps, to
the search of truth, who has habitually prayed for
guidance, and has taken all the means in his power to
secure it; or they, ‘ the gentlemen of England who sit
at home at ease?’ No, no, they may talk of seeking
the truth, of private judgment, as a duty, but they have
never sought, they have never judged; they are where
they are, not because it is true, but because they find
themselves there, because it is their * providential posi-
tion,’ and a pleasant one into the bargain.”

Reding had got somewhat excited; the paragraph in
the newspaper had annoyed him. But, without taking
that into account, there was enough in the circumstances
in which he found himself to throw him out of his ordi-
nary state of mind. He was in a crisis of peculiar trial,
which a person must have felt to understand. Few men
go to battle in cool blood, or prepare without agitation
for a surgical operation. Carlton, on the other hand,
was a quiet gentle person, who was not heard to use an
excited word once a year. The conversation came to a
stand. At length Carlton said, “ I hope, dear Reding,
you are not joining the Church of Rome merely becauso
there are unreasonable, unfeeling persons in the Church
of England.” Charles felt that he was not showing to
advantage, and that he was giving rise to the very sur-
mises about the motives of his conversion which he was
deprecating. “It is a sad thing,” he said with some-
thing of self-reproach, “ to spend our last minutes inLOSS AND GAIN.

301

wrangling. Forgive me, Carlton, if I have said any-
thing too strongly or earnestly.” Carlton thought he
had; he thought him in an excited state; but it was
no use telling him so; so he merely pressed his offered
hand affectionately, and said nothing.

Presently he said, dryly and abruptly, “ Reding, do
you know any Roman Catholics?” “No,” answered
Reding; “ Willis indeed, but I hav’n’t seen even him
these two years. It has been entirely the working of
my own mind.” Carlton did not answer at once ; then
he said, as dryly and abruptly as before, “ I suspect,
then, you will have much to bear with when you know
them.” “ What do you mean ?” asked Reding. “ You
will find them under-educated men, I suspect.” “ What
do you know of them ? ” said Reding. “ I suspect it,”
answered Carlton. “ But what’s that to the purpose ? ”
asked Charles. “ It’s a thing you should think of. An
English clergyman is a gentleman; you may have more
to bear than you reckon for, when you find yourself with
men of rude minds and vulgar manners.” “ My dear
Carlton, ar’n’t you talking of what you know nothing at
all about?” “Well,but you should think of it, you should
contemplate it,” said Carlton; “I judge from their
letters and speeches, which one reads in the papers.”
Charles thought a while; then he said, “ Certainly, I
don’t like many things which are done and said by
Roman Catholics just now; but I don’t see how all this
can be more than a trial and a cross; I don’t see how it
affects the great question.” “ No, except that you may
find yourself a fish out of water,” answered Carlton;
“ you may find yourself in a position where you can act
with no one, where you will be quite thrown away.”
“ Well,” said Charles, “ as to the fact, I know nothing302

LOSS AND GAIN.

about it; it may be as you say, but I don’t think much
of your proof. In all communities the worst is on the
outside. What offends me in Catholic public proceed-
ings need be no measure, nay, I believe cannot be a
measure, of the inward Catholic mind. I would not
judge the Anglican Church by Exeter Hall, nay, not by
Episcopal Charges. We see the interior of our own
Church, the exterior of the Church of Rome. This
is not a fair comparison.” “ But look at their books of
devotion,” insisted Carlton; “they can’t write English.”
Reding smiled at Carlton, and slowly shook his head to
and fro, while he said, “ They write English, I suppose,
as classically as St. John writes Greek.” Here again the
conversation halted, and nothing was heard for a while
but the simmering of the kettle.

There was no good in disputing, as might be seen
from the first; each had his own view, and that was
the beginning and end of the matter. Charles stood up.
“Well, dearest Carlton,” he said, “we must part; it
must be going on for eleven.” He pulled out of his
pocket a small “ Christian Year.” “ You have often
seen me with this,” he continued; “accept it in memory
of me. You will not see me, but here is a pledge that I
will not forget you, that I will ever remember you.”
He stopped, much affected. “ Oh, it is very hard to
leave you all, to go to strangers,” he went on; “I do
not wish it, but I cannot help it; I am called, I am
compelled.” He stopped again; the tears flowed down
his cheeks. “ All is well,” he said recovering himself,
“all is well;,but it’s hard at the time, and scarcely
any one to feel for me; black looks, bitter words ....
I am pleasing myself, following my own will ....
well. . . .” and he began looking at his fingers andLOBS AND GAIN.

303

slowly rubbing his palms one on another. “ It must be,’ ’
be whispered to himself, “ through tribulation to the
kingdom, sowing in tears, reaping in joy . . .” Another
pause, and a new train of thought came over him;
“ Oh,” he said, “ I fear so very much, so very much,
that all you who do not come forward will go back.
Tou cannot stand where you are; for a time you will
think you do, then you will oppose us, and still think
you keep yOur ground, while you use the same words as
before; but your belief, your opinions will decline. You
will hold less. And then, in time, it will strike you
that, in differing with Protestants, you are contending
only about words. They call us Eationalists; take care
you don’t fall into Liberalism. And now, my dearest
Carlton, my one friend in Oxford who was patient and
loving towards me, good-bye. May we meet not long
hence in peace and joy. I cannot go to you; you must
come to me.” They embraced each other affectionately;
and the next minute Charles was running down the
staircase.

CHAPTER VI.

Chables went to bed with a bad headache, and woke
with a worse. Nothing remained but to order his bill and
be off for London. Yet he could not go without taking
a last farewell of the place itself. He was up soon
after seven; and while the gownsmen were rising and
in their respective chapels, he had been round Magdalen
Walk and Christ Church Meadow. There were few or
none to see him wherever he went. The trees of the
Water-walk were variegated, as beseemed the time of304

LOSS AND GAIN.

year, with a thousand hues, arching over his head, and
screening his side. He reached Addison’s Walt; there
he had been for the first time with his father, when he
was coming into residence, just six years before to a
day. He pursued it, and onwards still, till he came
round in sight of the beautiful tower, which at length rose
close over his head. The morning was frosty, and there
was a mist; the leaves flitted about; all was in unison
with the state of his feelings. Here-entered the monastic
buildings, meeting with nothing but scouts with boxes of
cinders, and old women carrying off the remains of the
kitchen. He crossed to the Meadow, and walked steadily
down to the junction of the Cherwell with the Isis; he
then turned hack. What thoughts came upon him!
for the last time! There was no one to see him; he
threw his arms round the willows so dear to him, and
kissed them; he tore off some of their black leaves, and
put them in his bosom. “ I am like TJndine,” he said,
“killing with a kiss. No one oares for me; scarce a
person knows me.” He neared the Long Walk again.
Suddenly looking obliquely into it, he saw a cap and
gown; he looked anxiously; it was Jennings; there was
no mistake; and his direction was towards him. Charles
always had felt kindly towards him, in spite of his stern-
ness, but he would not meet him for the world; what
was he to do ? he stood behind a large elm, and let him
pass; then he set off again at a quick pace. When he
had got some way, he ventured to turn his head round;
and he saw Jennings at the moment, by that sort of
fatality or sympathy which is so common, turning round
towards him. He hurried on, and soon found himself
again at his inn.

Strange as it may seem, though he had on the wholeLOSS AND GAIN.

305

Lad as good success as Carlton in the “ keen encounter
of their wits” the night before, it had left an unsatis-
factory effect on his mind. The time for action was come;
argument was past, as he had himself said; and to recur
to argument was only to confuse the clearness of his ap-
prehension of the truth. He began to question whether
be really had evidence enough for the step he was
taking, and the temptation assailed him that he was
giving up this world without gaining the next. Carlton
evidently thought him excited; what if it were true ?
Perhaps his convictions were, after all, a dream ; what
did they rest upon ? He tried to recal his best arguments,
and could not. "Was there, after all, any such thing as
truth ? Was not one thing as good as another ? At all
events, could he not have served God well in his genera-
tion, where he had been placed ? He recollected some
lines in the Ethics of Aristotle, quoted by the philosopher
from an old poet, in which the poor outcast Philoctetes
laments over his own stupid officiousness, as he calls it,
which had been the cause of his misfortunes. Was he
not a busybody too ? Why could he not let well alone ?
Better men than he had lived and died in the English
Church. And then what if, as Campbell had said, all
his so-called convictions were to vanish just as he en-
tered the Roman pale, as they had done on his father’s
death ? He began to envy Sheffield; all had turned
out well with him—a good class, a fellowship, merely
or principally because he had taken things as they
came, and not gone roaming after visions. He felt
himself violently assaulted; but he was not deserted,
not overpowered. His good sense, rather his good
Angel, came to his aid; evidently he was in no way
able to argue or judge at that moment; the deliberate306

LOSS AND GAIN.

conclusions of years ought not to be set aside by the
troubled thoughts of an hour. With an effort he put
the whole subject from him, and addressed himself to
his journey.

How he got to Steventon he hardly recollected,
but gradually he came to himself, and found himself in
a first-class of the Great Western, proceeding rapidly
towards London. He then looked about him to ascertain
who his fellow-travellers were. The further compart-
ment was full of passengers, who seemed to form one
party, talking together with great volubility and glee.
Of the three seats in his own part of the carriage, one
only, that opposite to him, was filled. On taking a
survey of the stranger, he saw a grave person passing
or past the middle age; his face had that worn or rather
that unplacid appearance, which even slight physical
suffering, if habitual, gives to the features, and his eyes
were pale from study or other cause. Charles thought
he had seen his face before, but he could not recollect
where or when. But what most interested him was his
dress, which was such as is rarely found in a travelling-
companion. It was of a foreign character, and, taken
together with the small office-book he held in his hand,
plainly showed Charles that he was opposite a Homan
ecclesiastic. His heart beat, and he felt tempted to
start from his seat; then a sick feeling and a sinking
came over him. He gradually grew calmer, and jour-
neyed on some time in silence, longing yet afraid to
speak. At length, on the train stopping at the station,
he addressed a few words to him in French. His com-
panion looked surprised, smiled, and in a hesitating sad-
dish voice said that he was an Englishman. Charles
make an awkward apology, and there was silence again.LOSS AND GAIN.

307

Their eyes sometimes met, and then moved slowly off
each other, as if a mutual reconn offering was in pro-
gress. At length it seemed to strike the stranger that
he had abruptly stopped the conversation; and, after
apparently beating about for an introductory topic, he
said, “ Perhaps I can read you, sir, better than you can
me. You are an Oxford man by your appearance.”
Charles assented. “A bachelor?” He was of near
Master’s standing. His companion, who did not seem
in a humour for talking, proceeded to various questions
about the University, as if out of civility. What col-
leges sent Proctors that year ? Were the Taylor Pro-
fessors appointed ? Were they members of the Church
of England ? Did the new Bishop of Bury keep his
headship ? etc., etc. Some matter-of-fact conversation
followed, which came to nothing. Charles had so much
to ask; his thoughts were busy, and his mind full.
Here was a Catholic priest ready for his necessities;
yet the opportunity was likely to pass away, and nothing
to come of it. After one or two fruitless efforts, he
gave it up, and leant back in his seat. His fellow-tra-
veller began, as quietly as he could, to say office. Time
went forward, the steam was let off and put on; the
train stopped and proceeded, and the office was appa-
rently finished; the book vanished in a side-pocket.

After a time Charles suddenly said, “ How came you
to suppose I was of Oxford ?” “ Hot entirely by your
look and manner, for I saw you jump from the omnibus
at Steventon; but with that assistance it was impossible
to mistake.” “ I have heard others say the same,” said
Charles; “ yet I can’t myself make out how an Oxford
man should be known from another.” “ Hot only Ox-
ford men, but Cambridge men, are known by their ap-308

LOSS AND GAIN.

pearance; soldiers, lawyers, beneficed clergymen; indeed
every class has its external indications to those who can
read them.” “I know persons,” said Charles, “who
believe that handwriting is an indication of calling and
character.” “ I do not doubt it,” replied the priest;
“ the gait is another; but it is not all of us who can
read so recondite a language. Yet a language it is, as
really as hieroglyphics on an obelisk.” “ It is a fearful
thought,” said Charles with a sigh, “ that we, as it were,
exhale ourselves every breath we draw.” The stranger
assented; “ A man’s moral being,” he said, “ is concen-
trated in each moment of his life; it lives in the tips of
his fingers, and the spring of his insteps. A very little
thing tries what a man is made of.”

“ I think I must be speaking to a Catholic Priest ?”
said Charles: when his question was answered in the
affirmative, he went on hesitatingly to ask if what they
had been speaking of did not illustrate the importance
of faith? “One did not see at first sight,” he said,
“ how it was rational to maintain that so much depended
on holding this or that doctrine, or a little more or a
little less, but it might be a test of the heart.” His
companion looked pleased; however, he observed, that
“ there was no ‘ more or less ’ in faith; that either we
believed the whole revealed message, or really we be-
lieved no part of it; that we ought to believe what the
Church proposed to us on the word of the Church.”
“ Yet surely the so-called Evangelical believes more than
the Unitarian, and the High-Churchman than the Evan-
gelical,” objected Charles. “ The question,” said his
fellow-traveller, “ is, whether they submit their reason
implicitly to that which they have received as God’s
word.” Charles assented. “ Would you say, then,”LOSS AND GAIN.

309

he continued, “that the Unitarian really believes as
God’s word that which he professes to receive, when he
passes over and gets rid of so much that is in that word?”
“ Certainly not,” said Charles. “And why?” “Be-
cause it is plain,” said Charles, “that his ultimate
standard of truth is not the Scripture, but, unconsciously
to himself, some view of things in his mind which is the
measure of Scripture.” “ Then he believes himself, if
we may so speak,” said the priest, “and not the ex-
ternal word of God.” “ Certainly.” “ "Well, in like
manner,” he continued, “do you think a person can have
real faith in that which he admits to be the word of
God, who passes by, without attempting to understand,
such passages as ‘ the Church the pillar and ground of
the truthor, ‘ whose soever sins ye forgive, they are
forgivenor, ‘ if any man is sick, let him call for the
priests of the Church, and let them anoint him with oil ?’ ”
“Yes,” said Charles; “but, in fact, we do not profess
to have faith in the mere text of Scripture. * You know,
sir,” he added hesitatingly, “ that the Anglican doctrine
is to interpret Scripture by the Church ; therefore we
have faith, like Catholics, not in Scripture simply, but in
the whole word committed to the Church, of which Scrip-
ture is a part.” His companion smiled; “ How many,”
he asked, “ so profess ? But, waiving this question, I
understand what a Catholic means by saying that he goes
by the voice of the Church; it means, practically, by the
voice of the first priest he meets. Every priest is the
voice of the Church. This is quite intelligible. In
matters of doctrine, he has faith in the word of any priest.
But what, where, is that ‘ word ’ of the Church which the
persons you speak of believe in ? and when do they ex-
ercise their belief? Is it not an undeniable fact, that310

LOSS AND GAIN.

so far from all Anglican clergymen agreeing together in
faith, what the first says, the second will unsay ? so
that an Anglican cannot, if he would, have faith in them,
and necessarily does, though he would not, choose be-
tween them. How, then, has faith a place in the re-
ligion of an Anglican ? ” “ Well,” said Charles, “ I am
sure I know a good many persons,—and if you knew the
Church of England as I do, you would not need me to
tell you,—who, from knowledge of the Gospels, have an
absolute conviction and an intimate sense of the reality of
the sacred facts contained in them, which, whether you
call it faith or not, is powerful enough to colour their
whole being with its influence, and rules their heart and
conduct as well as their imagination. I can’t believe that
these persons are out of God’s favour ; yet, according to
your account of the matter, they have not faith.” “ Do
you think these persons believe and practise all that is
brought home to them as being in Scripture ?” asked his
companion. “ Certainly they do,” answered Charles,
“ as far as man can judge.” “ Then perhaps they may
be practising the virtue of faith; if there are passages
in it to which they are insensible, as about the sacraments,
penance, and extreme unction, or about the See of Peter,
I should in charity think that these passages had never
been brought home or applied to their minds and con-
sciences,—just as a Pope’s Bull may be for a time un-
known in a distant part of the Church. They may be1

1 “ Errantes invincibiliter circa aliquos articulos, et credentes
alios, non sunt formaliter heretici, sed habent tidem supernatura-
lem, qua credunt veros articulos, atque adeo ex ea possunt proce-
dere actus perfectse contritionis, quibus justificentur et salventur.”
—Be Lugo de Fid., p. 169.LOSS AND GAIN.

311

in involuntary ignorance. Tet I fear that, taking the
whole nation, they are few among many.” Charles said,
this did not fully meet the difficulty ; faith, in the case
of these persons, at least was not faith in the word of the
Church. His companion would not allow this; he said
they received the Scripture on the testimony of the
Church, that at least they were believing the word of
God, and the like.

Presently Charles said, “ It is to me a great mystery
how the English people, as a whole, is ever to have faith
again; is there evidence enough for faith?” His new
friend looked surprised and not overpleased; “ Surely,”
he said, “ in matter of fact, a man may have more evi-
dence for believing the Church to be the messenger of
God, thanhehas for believing the four Gospels to be from
God. If, then, he already believes the latter, why should
he not believe the former ?”	“ But the belief in the

Gospels is a traditional belief,” said Charles; “that
makes all the difference. I cannot see how a nation like
England, which has lost the faith, ever can recover it.
Hence, in the matter of conversion, Providence has
generally visited simple and barbarous nations.” “ The
converts of the Homan empire were, I suppose, a con-
siderable exception,” said the priest. “ Still, it seems
to me a great difficulty,” answered Charles; “ I do not
see, when the dogmatic structure is once broken down,
how it is ever to be built up again. I fancy there is a
passage somewhere in Carlyle’s French Revolution on the
subject, in which the author laments over the madness
of men’s destroying what they could not replace, what it
would take centuries and a combination of fortunate cir-
cumstances to reproduce, an external received creed. I
am not denying, God forbid! the objectivity of revela-312

LOSS AND GAIN.

tion, or saying that faith is a sort of happy and expe-
dient delusion; but, really, the evidence for revealed
doctrine is so built up on probabilities, that I do not
see what is to introduce it into a civilised community,
where reason has been cultivated to the utmost, and
argument is the test of truth. Many a man will say,

‘ Oh, that I had been educated a Catholic! ’ but he has
not been; and he finds himself unable, though wishing,
to believe, for he has not evidence enough to subdue
his reason. What is to make him believe ? ” His
fellow-traveller had for some time shown signs of un-
easiness ; when Charles stopped, he said shortly, but
quietly, “ What is to make him believe ! the will, his

wilir

Charles hesitated; he proceeded; “ If there is evi-
dence enough to believe Scripture, and we see that there
is, I repeat, there is more than enough to believe the
Church. The evidence is not in fault; all it requires is
to be brought home or applied to the mind; if belief
does not then follow, the fault lies with the will.”
“Well,” said Charles, “ I think there is a general feel-
ing among educated Anglicans, that the claims of the
Homan Church do not rest on a sufficiently intellectual
basis ; that the evidences, or notes, were well enough for
a rude age, not for this. This is what makes me despair
of the growth of Catholicism.” His companion looked
round curiously at him, and then said quietly, “ Depend
upon it, there is quite evidence enough for a moral con-
viction that the Catholic or Eoman Church, and none
other, is the voice of God.” “Do you mean,” said
Charles, with a beating heart, “ that before conversion
one can attain to a present abiding actual conviction of
this truth ? ” “ I do not know,” answered the other;LOSS AND GAIN.

313

“ but at least be may have habitual moral certainty; I
mean, a conviction, and one only, steady, without rival
conviction, or even reasonable doubt, present to him
when he is most composed and in his hours of solitude,
and flashing on him from time to time, as through
clouds, when he is in the world;—a conviction to this
effect, ‘ The Roman Catholic Church is the one only
voice of God, the one only way of salvation. ’ ” “ Then
you mean to say,” said Charles, while his heart beat
faster, “ that such a person is under no duty to wait for
clearer light.” “He will not have, he cannot expect,
clearer light before conversion. Certainty in its highest
sense is the reward of those who, by an act of the will,
embrace the truth, when nature, like a coward, shrinks.
You must make a venture; faith is a venture before a
man is a Catholic; it is a grace after it. You approach
the Church in the way of reason, you live in it in the
light of the Spirit.”

Charles said that he feared there was a great tempta-
tion operating on many well-informed and excellent men,
to find fault with the evidence for Catholicity, and to
give over the search, on the excuse that there were ar-
guments on both sides. “ It is not one set of men,” an-
swered his companion; “ it is the grievous deficiency in
Englishmen altogether. Englishmen have many gifts,
faith they have not. Other nations, inferior to them in
many things, still have faith. Nothing will stand in
place of it; not a sense of the beauty of Catholicism,
or of its awfulness, or of its antiquity ; not an apprecia-
tion of the sympathy which it shows towards sinners ;
not an admiration of the Martyrs and early Fathers, and
a delight in their writings. Individuals may display a
touching gentleness, or a conscientiousness which de-314

loss AND GAIN.

mands our reverence; still, till they have faith, they have
not the foundation, and their superstructure will fall.
They will not be blessed, they will effect nothing in reli-
gious matters, till they begin by an act of unreserved
faith in the word of Grod, whatever it be ; till they go
out of themselves; till they cease to make something
within them their standard, till they oblige their will to
perfect what reason leaves, sufficient, indeed, but in-
complete. And when they shall recognise this defect
in themselves, and try to remedy it, then they will
recognise much more, they will be on the road very
shortly to be Catholics.”

There was nothing in all this exactly new to Charles ;
but it was pleasant to hear it from the voice of another,
and him a priest. Thus he had sympathy and authority,
and felt he was restored to himself. The conversation
stopped. After a while he disclosed to his new friend
the errand which took him to London, which, after what
Charles had already been saying, could be no great sur-
prise to him. The latter knew the Superior of San
Michaele,and taking out a card, wrote upon it a few words
of introduction for him. By this time they had reached
Paddington; and before the train had well stopped, the
priest had taken his small carpet-bag from under his seat,
wrapped his cloak around him, stepped out of the car-
riage, and was walking out of sight at a brisk pace.

CHAPTEB VII.

Reding naturally wished to take the important step he
was meditating as quietly as he could; and had takenLOSS AND GAIN.

315

what he considered satisfactory measures for this pur-
pose. But such arrangements often turn out very differ-
ently from their promise ; and so it was in his case.

The Passionist House was in the eastern part of Lon-
don; so far well;—and as he knew in the neighbourhood
a respectable publisher in the religious line, with whom
his father bad dealt, he had written to him to bespeak
a room in his house for the few days which he
trusted would suffice for the process of his reception.
What was to happen to him after it, he left for the
advice he might get from those in whose hands
he found himself. It was now Wednesday; he hoped
to have two days to prepare himself for his confession,
and then he proposed to present himself before those
who were to receive it. His better plan would have
been, to have gone to the Religious House at once;
where doubtless the good fathers would have lodged
him, secured him from intrusion, and given him the
best advice how to proceed. But we must indulge him,
if, doing so great a work, he likes to do it in his own
way ; nor must we be hard on him, though it be not
the best way.

On arriving at his destination, he saw in the deport-
ment of his host grounds for concluding that his coming
was not only expected, but understood. Doubtless,
then, the paragraph of the “ Oxford Gazette ” had been
copied into the London papers ; nor did it relieve his
unpleasant surprise, to find, as he passed to his room,
that the worthy bibliopolist had a reading-room attached
to his shop* which was far more perilous to his privacy
than a coffee-room would have been. He was not
obliged, however, to mix with the various parties who
seemed to frequent it; and he determined as far as pos-316

LOSS AND GAIN.

sible to confine Himself to his apartment. The rest of
the day he employed in writing letters to friends; his
conversation of the morning had tranquillized him ; he
went to bed peaceful and happy, slept soundly, rose late,
and, refreshed in mind and body, turned his thoughts
to the serious duties of the day.

Breakfast over, he gave'a considerable time to devo-
tional exercises, and then opening his writing desk,
addressed himself to his work. Hardly had he got into
it, when his landlord made his appearance; and, with
many apologies for his intrusion, and a hope that he was
not going to be impertinent, proceeded to inquire if Mr.
Ending was a Catholic. “ The question had been put
to him, and he thought he might venture to solicit an
answer from the person who could give the most authentic
information.” Here was an interruption, vexatious in
itself, and perplexing in the form in which it came upon
him ; it would be absurd to reply that he was on the
point of becoming a Catholic, so he shortly answered in
the negative. Mr. Mumford then informed him that
there were two friends of Mr. Reding’s below, who
wished very much to have a few minutes’ conversation
with him. Charles could make no intelligible objection
to the request; and in the course of a few minutes their
knock was heard at the room-door.

On his answering it, two persons presented themselves,
apparently both strangers to him. This, however, at
the moment was a relief; for vague fears and surmises
had begun to flit across his mind as to the faces which
were to make their appearance. The younger of the two,
who had round full cheeks, with a nose turned up
towards the right eye, and a shrill voice, advanced con-
fidently, and seemed to expect a recognition. It brokeLOSS AND GAIN.

317

upon Charles that he had seen him before, but he could
not tell where. “ I ought to know your face,” he said.
“ Yes, Mr. Reding,” answered the person addressed,
“ you may recollect me at College.” “ Ah, I remember
perfectly,” said Reding; “ Jack the kitchen-boy at St.
Saviour’s.” “Yes,” said Jack ; “I came when young
Tom was promoted into Dennis’s place.” Then he
added, with a solemn shake of the head, “ I have got
promotion now.” “ So it seems, Jack,” answered
Reding; “but what are you? Speak.” “ Ah, sir,”
said Jack, “ we must converse in a tone of befitting
seriousnessand he added, in a deep inarticulate voice,
his lips not being suffered to meet together, “ Sir, I
stand next to an Angel now.” “ A what ? Angel ? Oh,
I know,” cried Charles; “ it’s some sect; the Sande-
manians”— “ Sandemanians !” interrupted Jack; “we
hold them in abhorrence; they are levellers; they bring
in disorder and every evil work.” “ I beg pardon, but I
know it is some sect, though I don’t recollect what. I’ve
heard about it. Well, tell me, Jack, what are you ? ”
“ lam,” answered Jack, as if he were confessing at the
tribunal of a Propraetor, “ I am a member of the Holy
Catholic Church.” “ That’s right, Jack,” said Reding ;
“ but it’s not distinctive enough ; so are we all; every
one will say as much.” “Hear me out, Mr.Rediug, sir,”
answered Jack, waving his hand; “ hear me, but strike ;
I repeat, I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church,
assemblinginHuggermuggerLane.” “Ah,” said Charles,
“I see; that’s what the ‘gods’ call you; now, what
do men ? ” “ Men,” said Jack, not understanding, how-
ever, the allusion—“ men call us Christians, professing
the opinions of the late Rev. Edward Irving, B.D.” “ I
understand perfectly now,” said Reding; “Irvingites—318

LOSS AND GAIN.

I recollect”—“No, sir,” he said, “not Irvingites; we
do not follow man ; we follow wherever the Spirit leads
us ; we have given up Tongue. But I ought to introduce
you to my friend, who is more than an Angel,” he pro-
ceeded modestly, “ who has more than the tongue of
men and angels, being nothing short of an Apostle, sir.
Mr. Reding, here’s the Rev. Alexander Highfly. Mr.
Highfly, this is Mr. Reding.”

Mr. Highfly was a man of gentlemanlike appearance
and manner ; his language was refined, and his conduct
was delicate; so much so that Charles at once changed
his tone in speaking to him. He came to Mr. Reding,
he said, from a sense of duty; and there was nothing
in his conversation to clash with his profession. He
explained that he had heard of Mr. Reding’s being
unsettled in his religious views, and he would not lose
the opportunity of attempting so valuable an accession
to the cause to which he had dedicated himself. “ I
see,” said Charles, smiling, “ I am in the market.” “ It
is the bargain of Glaucus with Diomede,” answered Mr.
Highfly; “ for which I am asking your co-operation. I
am giving you the fellowship of Apostles.” “It is, I
recollect, one of the characteristics of your body,” said
Charles, “ to have an order of Apostles, in addition to
Bishops, Priests, and Deacons.” “Rather,” said his
visitor, “ it is the special characteristic; for we acknow-
ledge the orders of the Church of England. We are but
completing the Church sy stem by restoring the Apostolic
College.” “ What I should complain of,” said Charles,
“ were I at all inclined to listen to your claims, would
be the very different views which different members of
your body put forward.” “ You must recollect, sir,”
answered Mr. Highfly, “ that we are under divine teach-LOSS AND GAIN.

319

ing, and that truth is but gradually communicated to
the Church. "We do not pledge ourselves what we
shall believe to-morrow, by any thing we say to-day.”
“ Certainly,” answered Eeding, “ things have been said
to me by your teachers which I must suppose were only
private opinions, though they seemed to be more.” “But
I was saying,” said Mr. Highfly, “that at present we
are restoring the G-entile Apostolate. The Church of
England has Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, but a Scrip-
tural Church has more; it is plain it ought to have
Apostles. In Scripture, Apostles had the supreme autho-
rity, and the three Anglican orders were but subordinate
to them.” “I am disposed to agree with you there,”
said Charles. Mr. Highfly looked surprised and pleased.
“We are restoring,” he said, “the Church to a more
scriptural state; perhaps, then, we may reckon on your
co-operation in doing so ? We do not ask you to secede
from the Establishment, but to acknowledge the Apos-
tolic authority, to which all ought to submit.” “But
does it not strike you, Mr. Highfly,” answered Eeding,
“ that there is a body of Christians, and not an incon-
siderable one, which maintains with you, and, what is
more, has always preserved, that true and higher Apos-
tolic succession in the Church; a body, I mean, which,
in addition to Episcopacy, believes that there is a stand-
ing ordinance above Episcopacy, and gives it the name
of the Apostolate ? ” “ On the contrary,” answered Mr.
Highfly, “ I consider that we are restoring what has
lain dormant ever since the time of St. Paul; nay, I
will say it is an ordinance which never has been carried
into effect at all, though it was in the divine design from
the first. You will observe that the Apostles were320

LOSS AND GAIN.

Jews; but there never has been a G-entile Apostolate.
St. Paul indeed was Apostle of the Gentiles, but the
design begun in him has hitherto been frustrated. He
went up to Jerusalem against the solemn warning of the
Spirit; now we are raised up to complete that work of
the Spirit, which was stopped by the inadvertence of the
first Apostle.”

Jack interposed: he should be very glad, he said, to
know what religious persuasion it W'as, besides his own,
which Mr. Reding considered to have preserved the suc-
cession of Apostles, as something distinct from Bishops.
“ It is quite plain whom I mean—the Catholics,” an-
swered Charles. “ The Popedom is the true Apostolate,
the Pope is the successor of the Apostles, particularly of
St. Peter.” “ We are very well inclined to the Roman
Catholics,” answered Mr. Highfly, with some hesitation;
“ we have adopted a great part of their ritual; but we
are not accustomed to consider that we resemble them
in what is our characteristic and cardinal tenet.” “ Allow
me to say it, Mr. Highfly,” said Reding, “ it is a reason
for every Irvingite—I mean every member of your
persuasion—becoming a Catholic. Your own religious
sense has taught you that there ought to be an Aposto-
late in the Church. You consider that the authority of
the Apostles was not temporary, but essential and fun-
damental. What that authority was, we see in St.
Paul’s conduct towards St. Timothy. He placed him in
the see of Ephesus, he sent him a charge, and, in fact,
he was his overseer or Bishop. He had the care of all
the Churches. Now, this is precisely the power which
the Pope claims, and has ever claimed; and, moreover,
he has claimed it, as being the successor, and the soleLOSS AND GAIN.

321

proper successor of the Apostles, though Bishops may be
improperly such also h And hence Catholics call him
Yicar of Christ, Bishop of Bishops, and the like ; and,
I believe, consider that he, in a pre-eminent sense, is the
one pastor or ruler of the Church, the source of juris-
diction, the judge of controversies, and the centre of
unity, as having the powers of the Apostles, and spe-
cially of St. Peter.” Mr. Highfly kept silence. “ Don’t
you think, then, it would be well,” continued Charles,
“ that, before coming to convert me, you should first join
the Catholic Church ? at least, you would urge your doc-
trine upon me with more authority if you came as a mem-
ber of it. And I will tell you frankly, that you would
find it easier to convert me to Catholicism than to your
present persuasion.” Jack looked at Mr. Highfly, as if
hoping for some decisive reply to what was a new view
to him ; but Mr. Highfly took a different line. “ Well,
sir,” he said, “ I do not see that any good will come by
our continuing the interview; but your last remark leads
me to observe that proselytism was not our object in
coming here. We did not propose more than to inform
you that a great work was going on, to direct your
attention to it, and to invite your co-operation. We do
not controvert; we only wish to deliver our testimony,
and there to leave the matter. I believe, then, we need
not take up yourvaluable time longer.” With that he got
up, and Jack with him, and, with many courteous bows
and smiles, which were duly responded to by Reding,
the two visitors took their departure.

1 “ Successores sunt, sed ita ut potius Vicarii dicendi sint
Apostolorum, quam successores; contra, Romanus Pontifex, quia
verus Petri successor est, nonnisi per quendam abusum ejus vica-
rius diceretur.”—Zaccar. Antifebr. p. 130.322

LOSS AND GAIN.

“Well, I might have been worse off,” thought Reding;
“ really they are gentle, well-mannered animals, after all.
I might have been attacked by some of your furious
Exeter-Hall beasts; but now to business . . . What's
that?” he added. Alas, it was a soft, distinct tap at
the door; there was no mistake. “ Who’s there ? come
in! ” he cried; upon which the door gently opened, and a
young lady, not without attractions of person and dress,
presented herself. Charles started up with vexation; but
there was no help for it, and he was obliged to hand her
a chair, and then to wait, all expectation, or rather all
impatience to be informed of her mission. For a while
she did not speak, but sat with her head on one side,
looking at her parasol, the point of which she fixed on
the carpet, while she slowly described a circumference
with the handle. At length she asked, without raising
her eyes, whether it was true,—and she spoke slowly,
and in what is called a spiritual tone,—whether it was
true, the information had been given her, that Mr.
Reding, the gentleman she had the honour of addressing
—whether it was true, that he was in search of a
religion more congenial to his feelings than that of the
Church of England. “ Mr. Reding could not give her
any satisfaction on the subject of her inquiry;”—he
answered shortly, and had some difficulty in keeping
from rudeness in his tone. The interrogation, she went
on to say, perhaps might seem impertinent; but she
had a motive. Some dear sisters of hers were engaged
in organising a new religious body, and Mr. Reding’s
accession, counsel, assistance, would be particularly
valuable ; the more so, because as yet they had not any
gentleman of University-education among them. “ May
I ask,” said Charles, “the name of the intended per-LOSS AND GAIN.

323

suasion ?”	“ The name,” she answered, “ is not fixed;

indeed, this is one of the points on which we should
covet the privilege of the advice of a gentleman so well
qualified as Mr. Reding to assist us in our deliberations.”
“ And your tenets, ma’am ? ” “ Here, too,” she replied,
“ there is much still to be done; the tenets are not fixed
either, that is, they are but sketched ; and we shall
prize your suggestions much. Nay, you will of course
have the opportunity, as you would have the right, to
nominate any doctrine to which you may be especially
inclined.” Charles did not know how to answer to so
liberal an offer. She continued : “ Perhaps it is right,
Mr. Reding, that I should tell you something more about
myself personally. I was born in the communion of the
Church of England ; for a while I was a member of the
New Connexion ; and at present,” she added, still with
drooping head and languid sing-song voice, “ at present,
I am a Plymouth brother.” It got too absurd; and
Charles, who had for an instant been amused, now became
full of the one thought, how to get her out of the room.

It was obviously left to her to keep up the conversa-
tion: so she said presently, “We are all for a pure
religion.” “ Prom what you tell me,” said Charles, “ I
gather that every member of your new community is
allowed to name one or two doctrines of his own.” “ We
are all scriptural,” she made answer, “ and therefore are
all one; we may differ, but we agree. Still it is so, as
you say, Mr. Reding. I’m for election and assurance;
our dearest friend is for perfection; and another sweet
sister is for the second advent. But we desire to in-
clude among us all souls who are thirsting after the river
of life, whatever their personal views. I believe you
are partial to sacraments and ceremonies?” Charles324

LOSS AND GAIN.

tried to cut short the interview by denying that he had
any religion to seek after, or any decision to make; hut
it was easier to end the conversation than the visit. He
threw himself hack in his chair in despair, and half
closed his eyes. “ Oh, those good Irvingites,” he
thought, “ blameless men, who came only to protest,
and vanished at the first word of opposition ; but now
thrice has the church-clock struck the quarters since her
entrance, and I don’t see why she’s not to stop here as
long as it goes on striking, since she has stopped so
long. She has not in her the elements of progress and
decay. She’ll never die; what is to become of me ?”
Nor was she doomed to find a natural death ; for,
when the case seemed hopeless, a noise was heard on the
staircase, and, with scarcely the apology for a knock, a
wild gawky man made his appearance, and at once cried
out, “ I hope, sir, it’s not a bargain yet; I hope it’s not
too late; discharge this young woman, Mr. Eeding, and
let me teach you the old truth, which never has been
repealed.” There was no need of discharging her; for
as kindly as she had unfolded her leaves and flourished in
the sun of Eeding’s forbearance, so did she at once shrink
and vanish—one could hardly tell how—before the rough
accents of the intruder; and Charles suddenly found
himself in the hands of a new tormentor. “ This is in-
tolerable,” he said to himself; and jumping up, he cried,
“ Sir, excuse me, I am particularly engaged this morn-
ing, and I must beg to decline the favour of your visit.”
“ What did you say, sir?” said the Btranger; and, taking
a note-book and a pencil from his pocket, he began to
look up in Charles’s face and write down his words, say-
ing half aloud, as he wrote, “ Declines the favour of my
visit.” Then he looked up again, keeping his pencilLOSS AND GAIN.

325

upon his paper, and said, “Now, sir.” Reding moved
towards him, and spreading his arms as one drives sheep
and poultry in one direction, he repeated, looking towards
the door, “ Really, sir, I feel the honour of your call;
hut another day, sir, another day. It is too much, too
much.” “Too much ? ” said the intruder; “ and I wait-
ing below so long! That dainty lady has been good part
of an hour here, and now you can’t give me five minutes,
sir.” “Why, sir,” answered Charles, “I am sure you
are come on an errand as fruitless as hers; and I am sick
of these religious discussions, and want to be to myself,
and to save you trouble.” “ Sick of religious discus-
sions,” said the stranger to himself, as he wrote down
the words in his note-book. Charles did not deign to
notice his act or to explain his own expression; he stood
prepared to renew his action of motioning him to the
door. His tormentor then said, “You may like to know
my name; it is Zerubbabel.”

Vexed as Reding was, he felt that he had no right
to visit the tediousness of his former visitor upon his
present; so he forced himself to reply, “ Zerubbabel;
indeed; and is Zerubbabel your Christian name, sir, or
your surname ? ”	“ It is both at once, Mr. Reding,”

answered Zerubbabel, “ or rather, I have no Christian
name, and Zerubbabel is my one Jewish designation.”
“ You are come, then, to inquire whether I am likely to
become a Jew.” “ Stranger things have happened,”
answered his visitor ; “ for instance, I myself was once
a deacon in the Church of England.” “ Then you are
not a Jew ? ” said Charles. “ I am a Jew by choice,”
he said ; “after much prayer and study of Scripture, I
have come to the conclusion, that, as Judaism was the
first religion, so it’s to be the last. Christianity I con-326

LOSS AND GAIN.

sider an episode in the history of revelation.” “ You
are not likely to have many followers in such a belief,”
said Charles; “ we are all for progress now, not for
retrograding.” “ I differ from you, Mr. Reding,” said
Zerubbabel; “ see what the Establishment is doing; it
has sent a Bishop to Jerusalem.” “ That is rather
with the view of making the Jews Christians, than the
Christians Jews,” saidReding. Zerubbabel wrote down:
“ Thinks Bishop of Jerusalem is to convert the Jews;”
then, “ I differ from you, sir; on the contrary, I fancy
the excellent Bishop has in view to revive the distinc-
tion between Jew and Gentile, which is one step towards
the supremacy of the former; for if the Jews have a
place at all in Christianity, as Jews, it must be the first
place.” Charles thought he had better let him have
his talk out; so Zerubbabel proceeded: “ The good
Bishop in question knows well that the Jew is the elder
brother of the Gentile, and it is his special mission to
restore a Jewish episcopate to the See of Jerusalem.
The Jewish succession has been suspended since the
time of the Apostles. And now you see the reason of
my calling on you, Mr. Reding. It is reported that
you lean towards the Catholic Church ; but I wish to
suggest to you that you have mistaken the centre of
unity. The See of James at Jerusalem is the true centre,
not the See of Peter at Rome. Peter’s power is a usurpa-
tion on James’s. I consider the present Bishop of Je-
rusalem the true Pope. The Gentiles have been in power
too long; it is now the Jews’ turn.” “ You seem to
allow,” said Charles, “ that there ought to be a centre
of unity and a Pope.” “ Certainly,” said Zerubbabel,
“ and a ritual too, but it should be the Jewish. I am
collecting subscriptions for the rebuilding of the TempleLOSS AND GAIN.

327

on Mount Moriah ; I hope too to negotiate a loan, and
we shall have Temple stock, yielding, I calculate, at least
four per cent.” “ It has hitherto been thought a sin,”
said Reding, “ to attempt rebuilding the Temple. Ac-
cording to you, Julian the Apostate went the better way
to work.” “His motive was wrong, sir,” answered the
other; “ but his act was good. The way to convert the
Jews is, first to accept their rites. This is one of the
greatest discoveries of this age. We must make the first
step towards them. For myself, I have adopted all
which the present state of their religion renders possible.
And I don’t despair to see the day when bloody sacri-
fices will be offered on the Temple Mount, as of old.”
Here he came to a pause; and Charles making no reply,
he said, in a brisk off-hand manner, “ May I not hope
you will give your name to this religious object, and
adopt the old ritual ? The Catholic is quite of yesterday
compared with it.” Charles answering in the negative,
Zerubbabel wrote down in his book : “Refuses to take
part in our scheme; ” and disappeared from the room,
as suddenly as he entered it.

CHAPTER VIII.

Chables’s trials were not at an end; and we suspect
the reader will give a shudder at the news, as having a
very material share in the infliction. Yet the reader’s
case has this great alleviation, that he takes up this nar-
rative in an idle hour,and Charles encountered the reality
in a very busy and anxious one. So, however, it was ;
not any great time elapsed after the retreat of Zerubba-328

LOSS AND GAIN.

bel, when his landlord again appeared at the door. He
assured Mr. Reding that it was no fault of his that the
last two persons had called on him ; that the lady had
slipped by him, and the gentleman had forced his way;
but that he now really did wish to solicit an interview
for a personage of great literary pretensions, who some-
times dealt with him, and who had come from the West
End for the honour of an interview with Mr. Reding.
Charles groaned, but only one reply was possible ; the
day was already wasted, and with a sort of dull resig-
nation he gave permission for the introduction of the
stranger.

It was a pasty-faced man of about thirty-five, who,
when he spoke, arched his eyebrows, and had a peculiar
smile. He began by expressing his apprehension that
Mr. Reding must have been wearied by impertinent and
unnecessary visitors—visitors without intellect, who
knew no better than to obtrude their fanaticism on per-
sons who did but despise it. “ I know more about the
Universities,” he continued, “ than to suppose that any
congeniality can exist between their members and the
mass of religious sectarians. You have had very dis-
tinguished men among you, sir, at Oxford, of very
various schools, yet all able men, and distinguished in the
pursuit of Truth, though they have arrived at contra-
dictory opinions.” Not knowing what he was driving
at, Reding remained in an attitude of expectation. “ I
belong,” he continued, “to a Society which is devoted
to the extension among all classes of the pursuit of
Truth. Any philosophical mind, Mr. Reding, must have
felt deep interest in your own party in the University.
Our Society in fact considers you to be distinguished
Confessors in that all-momentous occupation; and ILOSS AND GAIN.

329

have thought I could not pay yourself individually,
whose name has lately honourably appeared in the papers,
a better compliment than to get you elected a member
of our Truth Society. And here is your diploma,” he
added, handing a sheet of paper to him. Charles
glanced his eye over it; it was a paper, part engraving,
part print, part manuscript. An emblem of truth was
in the centre, represented not by a radiating sun or
star, as might be expected, but as the moon under total
eclipse, surrounded, as by cherub faces, by the heads of
Socrates, Cicero, Julian, Abelard, Luther, Benjamin
Franklin, and Lord Brougham. Then followed some
sentences to the effect, that the London Branch Asso-
ciation of the British and Foreign Truth Society, having
evidence of the zeal in the pursuit of Truth of Charles
Reding, Esq., member of Oxford University, had unani-
mously elected him into their number, and had assigned
him the dignified and responsible office of associate and
corresponding member. “ I thank the Truth Society
very much,” said Charles, when he got to the end
of the paper, “ for this mark of their good will; yet I
regret to have scruples about accepting it, till some of
the patrons are changed, whose heads are prefixed to
the diploma. For instance, I do not like to be under
the shadow of the Emperor Julian.” “ You would re-
spect his love of Truth, I presume,” said Mr. Batts.
“ Not much, I fear,” said Charles, “ seeing it did not
hinder him from deliberately embracing error.” “ No,
not so,” answered Mr. Batts ; “ from embracing what
he thought Truth ; and Julian, I conceive, cannot be
saidtohave deserted theTruth,because,in fact,he always
was in pursuit of it.” “I fear,” said Reding, “ there
is a very serious difference between your principles and330

LOSS AND GAIN.

my own on this point.” “ Ah, my dear sir, a little at-
tention to our principles will remove it,” said Mr. Batts :
“ let me beg your acceptance of this little pamphlet, in
which you will find some fundamental truths stated,
almost in the way of aphorisms. I wish to direct your
attention to page 8, where they are drawn out.” Charles
turned to the page, and read as follows :

“ On the pursuit of Truth.

1.	It is uncertain whether Truth exists.

2.	It is certain that it cannot be found.

3.	It is a folly to boast of possessing it.

4.	Man’s work and duty, as man, consist, not in

possessing, but in seeking it.

5.	His happiness and true dignity consists in the

pursuit.

6.	The pursuit of Truth is an end, to be engaged in

for its own sake.

7.	As philosophy is the love, not the possession of

wisdom, so religion is the love, not the posses-
sion of Truth.

8.	As Catholicism begins with faith, so Protestantism

ends with inquiry.

9.	As there is disinterestedness in seeking, so is there

selfishness in claiming to possess.

10.	The martyr of Truth is he who dies professing

that it is a shadow.

11.	A life-long martyrdom is this,to be ever changing.

12.	The fear of error is the bane of inquiry.”

Charles did not get further than these, but others fol-
lowed of a similar character. He returned the pam-
phlet to Mr. Batts. “ I see enough,” he said, “ of theLOSS AND GAIN.

331

opinions of the Truth Society, to admire their ingenuity
and originality, but, excuse me, not their good sense.
It is impossible I should subscribe to what is so plainly
opposed to Christianity.” Mr. Batts looked annoyed.
“We have no wish to oppose Christianity,” he said;
“ we only wish Christianity not to oppose us. It is very
hard that we may not go our own way, when we are
quite willing that others should go theirs. It seems im-
prudent, I conceive, in this age, to represent Christianity
as hostile to the progress of the mind, and to turn into
enemies of revelation those who do sincerely wish to
‘live and let live.’” “But contradictions cannot be
true,” said Charles: “if Christianity says that Truth
can be found, it must be an error to state that it cannot
be found.” “ I conceive it to be intolerant,” persisted
Mr. Batts: “ you will grant, I suppose, that Chris-
tianity has nothing to do with astronomy or geology:
why, then, should it be allowed to interfere with philo-
sophy ? ” It was useless proceeding in the discussion;
Charles repressed the answer which rose on his tongue,
of the essential connexion of philosophy with religion;
a silence ensued of several minutes, and Mr. Batts at
length took the hint, for he rose with a disappointed air,
and wished him good morning.

It mattered little now whether he was left to himself
or not, except that conversation harassed and fretted
him ; for, as to turning his mind to the subjects which
were to have been his occupation that morning, it was by
this time far too much wearied and dissipated to under-
take them. On Mr. Batts’ departure, then, he did not
make the attempt, but sat before the fire, dull and de-
pressed, and in danger of relapsing into the troubled
thoughts from which his railroad companion had extri-332

LOSS AND GAIN.

cated him. When, then, at the end of half an hour, a
new knock was heard at the door, he admitted the pos-
tulant with a calm indifference, as if fortune had now
done her worst, and he had nothing to fear. A middle-
aged man made his appearance, sleek and plump, who
seemed to be in good circumstances, and to have pro-
fited by them. His glossy black dress, in contrast with
the pink colour of his face and throat, for he wore no
collars, and his staid and pompous bearing, added to his
rapid delivery, when he spoke, gave him much the look
of a farm-yard turkey-cock, in the eyes of any one who
was less disgusted with seeing new faces than Reding
was at that moment. The new comer looked sharply
at him as he entered. “ Your most obedient,” he said
abruptly; “ you seem in low spirits, my dear sir ; but sit
down, Mr. Reding, and give me the opportunity of offer-
ing to you a little good advice. You may guess what
I am by my appearance: I speak for myself; I will say
no more; I can be of use to you. Mr. Reding,” he con-
tinued, pulling his chair towards him, and putting out
his hand as if he was going to paw him, “ have not you
made a mistake, in thinking it necessary to go to the
Romish Church, for a relief of your religious difficul-
ties?” “You have not yet heard from me, sir,” an-
swered Charles, gravely, “that I have any difficulties
at all. Excuse me if I am abrupt; I have had many
persons calling on me with your errand. It is very
kind of you, but I don’t want advice; I was a fool to
come here.” “Well, my dear Mr. Reding, but listen
to me,” answered his persecutor, spreading out the
fingers of his right hand, and opening his eyes wide;
“ I am right, I believe, in apprehending that your reason
for leaving the Establishment is, that you cannot carryLOSS AND GAIN.

333

out the surplice in the pulpit and the candlesticks on
the table. Now, don’t you do more than you need.
Pardon me, but you are like a person who should turn
the Thames in upon his house, when he merely wanted
his door-steps scrubbed. "Why become a convert to
Popery, when you can obtain your object in a cheaper
and better way ? Set up for yourself, my dear sir—
set up for yourself; form a new denomination, six
pence will do it; and then you may have your surplice
and candlesticks to your heart’s content, without deny-
ing the gospel, or running into the horrible abomina-
tions of the Scarlet Woman.” And he sat upright in
his chair, with his hands flat on his extended knees,
watching with a self-satisfied air the effect of his words
upon Reding,

“ I have had enough of this,” said poor Charles; “you,
indeed, are but one of a number, sir, and would say you
had nothing to do with the rest; but I cannot help re-
garding you as the fifth, or sixth, or seventh person—
I can’t count them—who has beenwithme this morning,
giving me, though with the best intentions, advice which
has not been asked for. I don’t know you, sir; you
have no introduction to me ; you have not even told me
your name. It is not usual to discourse on such per-
sonal matters with strangers. Let me, then, thank you
first for your kindness in coming, and next for the addi-
tional kindness of going.” And Charles rose up.

His visitor did not seem inclined to move, or to notice
what he had said. He stopped awhile, opened his hand-
kerchief with much deliberation, and blew his nose;
then he continued: “ Kitchens is my name, sir; Dr.
Kitchens: your state of mind, Mr. Reding, is not un-
known to me; you are at present under the influence of334

LOSS AND GAIN.

the old Adam, and indeed in a melancholy way. I was
not unprepared for it; and I have put into my pocket a
little tract which I shall press upon you with all the
Christian solicitude which brother can show towards
brother. Here it is ; I have the greatest confidence in
it; perhaps you have heard the name; it is known as
Kitchens’ Spiritual Elixir. The Elixir has enlightened
millions ; and, I will take on me to say, will convert you
in twenty-four hours. Its operation is mild and plea-
surable, and its effects are marvellous, prodigious,
though it does not consist of more than eight duode-
cimo pages. Here’s a list of testimonies to some of
the most remarkable cases. I have known one hundred
and two cases myself, in which it effected a saving
change in six hours ; seventy-nine in which its opera-
tions took place in as few as three; and twenty-seven
where conversion followed instantaneously after the
perusal. At once, poor sinners, who five minutes
before had been like the demoniac in the gospel, were
seen sitting £ clothed, and in their right mind.’ Thus
I speak within the mark, Mr. Eeding, when I say I
will warrant a change in you in twenty-four hours. I
have never known but one instance in which it seemed
to fail, and that was the case of a wretched old man,
who held it in his hand a whole day in dead silence,
without any apparent effect; but here exceptio probat
regulam, for on further inquiry we found he could not
read. So the tract was slowly administered to him by
another person; and before it was finished, I protest
to you, Mr. Eeding, he fell into a deep and healthy
slumber, perspired profusely, and woke up at the end
of twelve hours a new creature, perfectly new, bran
new, and fit for Heaven, whither he went in the courseLOSS AND GAIN.

335

of the week. "We are now making farther experi-
ments on its operation, and we find that even separate
leaves of the tract have a proportionate effect. And,
what is more to your own purpose, it is quite a specific
in the case of Popery. It directly attacks the peccant
matter, and all the trash about sacraments, saints,
penance, Purgatory, and good works is dislodged from
the soul at once.”

Charles remained silent and grave, as one who was
likely suddenly to break out into some strong act, rather
than condescend to any further parleying. Dr. Kit-
chens proceeded: “ Have you attended any of the lec-
tures delivered against the Mystic Babylon, or any of
the public disputes which have been carried on in so
many places ? My dear friend, Mr. Macanoise, con-
tested ten points with thirty Jesuits—a good half of the
Jesuits in London—and beat them upon all. Or have
you heard any of the luminaries of Exeter Hall ? There
is Mr. Gabb; he is a Boanerges, a perfect Niagara, for
his torrent of words; such momentum in his delivery;
it is as rapid as it’s strong; it’s enough to knock a man
down. He can speak seven hours running without fa-
tigue ; and last year he went through England, de-
livering through the length and breadth of the land,
one, and one only, awful protest against the apocalyptic
witch of Endor. He began at Devonport and ended at
Berwick, and surpassed himself on every delivery. At
Berwick, his last exhibition, the effect was perfectly tre-
mendous ; a friend of mine heard it; he assures me, in-
credible as it may appear, that it shattered some glass
in a neighbouring house; and two priests of Baal, who
were with their day-school within a quarter of a mile of
Mr. Gabb, were so damaged by the mere echo, that one336

LOSS AND GAIN.

forthwith took to his bed, and the other has walked on
crutches ever since.” He stopped awhile, then he con-
tinued : “ And what was it, do you think, Mr. Reding,
which had this effect on them P Why, it was Mr.
Gabb’s notion about the sign of the beast in the Reve-
lation : he proved, Mr. Reding—it was the most original
hit in his speech—he proved that it was the sign of the
cross, the material cross.”

The time at length was come; Reding could not bear
more; and, as it happened, his visitor’s offence gave
him the means, as well as a cause, for punishing him.
“ Oh,” he said suddenly, “then I suppose, Dr. Kitchens,
you can’t tolerate the cross?” “Oh, no; tolerate
it! ” answered Dr. Kitchens ; “ it is Antichrist.” “ You
can’t bear the sight of it, I suspect, Dr. Kitchens ? ” “I
can’t endure it, sir; what true Protestant can ? ” “ Then
look here,” said Charles, taking a small crucifix out of
his writing-desk ; and he held it before Dr. Kitchens’
face. Dr. Kitchens at once started on his feet, and re-
treated. “ What’s that ?” he said, and his face flushed
up and then turned pale; “ what’s that ? it’s the thing
itself;” and he made a snatch at it. “ Take it away,
Mr. Reding; it’s an idol; I cannot endure it; take
away the thing.” “ I declare,” said Reding to himself,
“ it really has power over him ;” and he still confronted
Dr. Kitchens with it,whilehekept it out of Dr. Kitchens’
reach. “Take it away, Mr. Reding, I beseech you,”
cried Dr. Kitchens, still retreating, while Charles still
pressed on him; “ take it away, it’s too much. Oh,
oh ! Spare me, spare me, Mr. Reding!—nehushtan—
an idol!—oh, you young antichrist, you devil!—’tis He,
’tis He—torment!—spare me, Mr. Reding.” And the
miserable man began to dance about, still eyeing theLOSS AND GAIN.

337

sacred sign and motioning it from him. Charles now
had victory in his hands : there was, indeed, some diffi-
culty in steering Dr. Kitchens to the door from the place
where he had been sitting ; but, that ouce effected, he
opened it with violence, and throwing himself on the
staircase, he began to jump down two or three steps at
a time, with such forgetfulness of every thing but his own
terror, that he came plump upon two persons, who, in
rivalry of each other, were in the act of rushing up:
and while he drove one against the rail, he fairly rolled
the other to the bottom.

CHAPTER IX.

Chables threw himself on his chair, burying the Cruci-
fix in his bosom, quite worn out with his long trial and
the sudden exertion in which it had just now been issu-
ing. When a noise was heard at his door, and knocks
succeeded, he took no further notice than to plant his
feet on the fender, and bury his face in his hands. The
summons at first was apparently from one person only,
but his delay in answering it gave time for the arrival of
another; and there was a brisk succession of alternate
knocks from the two, which Charles let take its course.
At length one of the rival candidates for admission,
bolder than the other, slowly opened the door; when
the other, who had impetuously scrambled up stairs after
his fall, rushed in before him, crying out, “ One word
for the New Jerusalem !” “In charity,” said Reding,
without changing his attitude, “in charity, leave me
alone. You mean it well, but I don’t want you, sir; I
don’t indeed. I’ve had Old Jerusalem here already, and338

LOSS AND GAIN.

Jewish Apostles, and Gentile Apostles, and free inquiry,
and fancy religion, and Exeter Hall. "What have I
done ? why can’t I die out in peace ? My dear sir, do
go! I can’t see you; I’m worn out.” And he rose up
and advanced towards him. “ Call again, dear sir, if you
are bent on talking with me; but, excuse me, I really
have had enough of it for one day. No fault of yours,
my dear sir, that you have come the sixth or seventh.”
And he opened the door for him. “ A madman nearly
threw me down as I was coming up,” said the person
addressed, in some agitation. “ Ten thousand pardons
for his rudeness, my dear sir, ten thousand pardons, but
allow me; ” and he bowed him out of the room. He
then turned round to the other stranger, who had stood
by in silence: “ And you too, sir—is it possible! ’ ’ His
countenance changed to extreme surprise; it was Mr.
Malcolm. Charles’s thoughts flowed in a new current,
and his tormentors were suddenly forgotten.

The history of Mr. Malcolm’s calling was simple. He
had always been a collector of old books, and had often
taken advantage of the stores of Charles’s landlord in
adding to hiB library. Passing through London to the
Eastern Counties rail, he happened to call in; and as
the worthy bookseller was not behind his own reading-
room in the diffusion of gossip, he learned that Mr.
Keding, who was on the point of seceding from the
Establishment, was at that moment above stairs. He
waited with impatience through Dr. Kitchens’ visit, and
even then found himself, to his no small annoyance, in
danger of being outstripped by the good Swedenborgian.

“ How d’ye do, Charles ? ” he said at length, with not
a little stiffness in his manner, while Charles had no less
awkwardness in receiving him ; “ you have been hold-LOSS AND GAIN.

339

ing a levee this morning; I thought I should never get
to see you. Sit you down ; let us both sit down, and
let me at last have a word or two with you.” In spite
of the diversified trial Charles had sustained from
strangers that morning, there was no one perhaps whom
he would have less desired to see than Mr. Malcolm. He
could not help associating him with his father, yet he felt
no opening of heart towards him, or respect for his judg-
ment. His feeling was a mixture of prescriptive fear
and friendliness, attachment from old associations, and
desire of standing well with him, but neither confidence
nor real love. He coloured up and felt guilty, yet
without a clear understanding why. “Well, Charles
Reding,” he said, “ I think we know each other well
enough for you to have given me a hint of what was
going on as regards you.” Charles said he had written
to him only the evening before. “ Ah, when there was
not time to answer your letter,” said Mr. Malcolm.
Charles said he wished to spare so kind a friend . . .
he bungled, and could not finish his sentence. “A
friend, who, of course, could give no advice,” said Mr.
Malcolm, drily. Presently he said, “ Were those people
some of your new friends who were calling on you ? they
have kept me in the shop this three-quarters of an hour;
and the fellow who has just come down, nearly threw me
over the baluster.” “Oh no, sir, I know nothing of them;
they were the most unwelcome of intruders.” “ As
some one else seems to be,” said Mr. Malcolm. Charles
was very much hurt; the more so, because he had
nothing to say; he kept silence. “ Well, Charles,” said
Mr. Malcolm, not looking at him, “ I have known you
from this high; more, from a child in arms. A frank,
open boy you were; I don’t know what has spoiled you.340

LOSS AND GAIN.

These Jesuits, perhaps ... It was not so in your
father’s lifetime.” “My dear sir,” said Charles, “it
pierces me to the heart to hear you talk so. You have
indeed always been most kind to me. If I have erred,
it has been an error of judgment; and I am very sorry
for it, and hope you will forgive it. I acted for the best;
but I have been, as you must feel, in a most trying situa-
tion. My mother has known what I was contemplating
this year past.” “ Trying situation! fudge! What
have you to do with situations ? I could have told you a
great deal about these Catholics ; I know all about them.
Error of judgment! don’t tell me. I know how these
things happen quite well. I have seen such things
before; only I thought you a more sensible fellow. There
was young Dalton of St. Cross; he goes abroad, and falls
in with a smooth priest, who persuades the silly fellow that
the Catholic Church is the ancient and true Church of
England, the only religion for a gentleman; he is intro-
duced to a Count this, and a Marchioness that, and returns
a Catholic. There was another; what was his name ? I
forgetit,of aBerkshire family. Heis smitten with apretty
face; nothing will serve but he must marry her; but she’s
a Catholic, and can’t marry a heretic ; so he, forsooth,
gives up the favour of his uncle, and his prospects in the
county, for his fair Juliet. There was another—but it’s
useless going on. And now I wonder what has taken you.”
All this was the best justification for Charles’s not
having spoken to Mr. Malcolm on the subject. That
gentleman had had his own experience of thirty or forty
years, and, like some great philosophers, he made that
personal experience of his the decisive test of the possi-
ble and the true. “ I know them,” he continued—“ I
know them; a set of hypocrites and sharpers. I couldLOSS AND GAIN.

341

tell you such stories of what I fell in with abroad. Those
priests are not to be trusted. Did you ever know a
priest?” “No,” answered Charles. “ Did you ever
see a Popish chapel?” “No.” “Do you know any
thing of Catholic books, Catholic doctrine, Catholic mo-
rality ? I warrant it, not much.” Charles looked very
uncomfortable. “ Then what makes you go to them ?”
Charles did not know what to say. “Silly boy,” he
went on, “ you have not a word to say for yourself;
it’s all idle fancy. You are going as abird to the fowler.”
Reding began to rouse himself; he felt he ought to say
something ; he felt that silence would tell against him.
“ Dear sir,” he answered, “ there’s nothing but may be
turned against one, if a person is so minded. Now, do
think ; had I known this or that priest, you would have
said at once, ‘ Ah, he came over you.’ If I had been
familiar with Catholic chapels, ‘ I was allured by the
singing or the incense.’ What can I have done better
than keep myself to myself, go by my best reason, con-
sult the friends whom I happened to find around me, as
I have done, and wait in patience till I was sure of my
convictions ? ” “ Ah, that’s the way with youyoungsters,”
said Mr. Malcolm; “ you all think you are so right;
you do think so admirably, that older heads are worth
nothing to the like of you. Well,” he went on, putting
on his gloves, “ I see I am not in the way to persuade
you. Poor dear Charlie, I grieve for you; what would
your poor father have said, had he lived to see it ? Poor
Reding; he has been spared this. But perhaps it would
not have happened. I know what the upshot will be ;
you will come back—come back you will, to a dead cer-
tainty. We shall see you back, foolish boy, after you
have had your gallop over your ploughed field. Well,342

LOS a AND GAIN.

well; better than running wild. You must have your
hobby; it might have been a worse ; you might have
run through your money. But perhaps you’ll be giving
it away, as it is, to some artful priest. It’s grievous,
grievous ; your education thrown away, your prospects
ruined, your poor mother and sisters left to take care of
themselves. And you don’t say a word to me.” And
he began musing. “ A troublesome world ; good bye,
Charles; you are high and mighty now, and are in full
sail: you may come to your father’s friend some day in a
different temper. Good bye.” There was no help for
it; Charles’s heart was full, but his head was wearied
and confused, and his spirit sunk: for all these reasons
he had not a word to say, and seemed to Mr. Malcolm
either stupid or close. He could but wring warmly
Mr. Malcolm’s reluctant hand, and accompany him
down to the street-door.

CHAPTER X.

“ This will never do,” said Charles, as he closed the
door, and ran up stairs; “ here is a day wasted, worse
than wasted, wasted partly on strangers, partly on friends;
and it’s hard to say in which case a more thorough waste.
I ought to have gone to the Convent at once.” The
thought flashed into his mind, and he stood over the fire
dwelling on it. “ Yes,” he said, “ I will delay no longer.
How does time go ? I declare it’s four o’clock.” He
then thought again. “ I’ll get over my dinner, and then
at once betake myself to my good Passionists.”

To the coffee-house then he went, and, as it was some
way off, it is not wonderful that it was near six beforeLOSS AND GAIN.

343

lie arrived at the Convent. It was a plain brick build-
ing ; money had not been so abundant as to overflow
upon the exterior, after the expense of the interior had
been provided for. 'And it was incomplete; a large
church had been enclosed, but it was scarcely more than
a shell,—altars, indeed, had been set up,but, for the rest,
it had little more than good proportions, a broad sanc-
tuary, a serviceable organ, and an effective choir. There
was a range of buildings adjacent, capable of holding
about half-a-dozen fathers; but the size of the church
required a larger establishment. By this time, doubt-
less, things are different, but we are looking back at
the first efforts of the English Congregation, when it
had scarcely ceased to struggle for life, and when friends
and members were but beginning to flow in.

It was indeed but ten years, at that time, since the
severest of modern rules had been introduced into Eng-
land. Two centuries after the memorable era when St.
Philip and St. Ignatius, making light of those bodily
austerities of which they were personally so great mas-
ters, preached mortification of will and reason as more
necessary for a civilized age,—in the lukewarm and self-
indulgent eighteenth century, Eather Paul of the Cross
was divinely moved to found a Congregation in some
respects more ascetic than the primitive hermits and the
orders of the middle age. It was not fast, or silence, or
poverty, which distinguished it, though here too it is
not wanting in strictness; but in the cell of its venerable
Pounder, on the Celian Hill, hangs an iron discipline or
scourge, studded with nails, which is a memorial, not
only of his own Belf-inflicted sufferings, but of those of
his Italian family. Their object was as remarkable as
their intensity; penance, indeed, is in one respect the344

LOSS AND GAIN.

end of all self-chastisement, hut in the instance of the
Passionists the use of the scourge is specially directed
to the benefit of their neighbour. They apply the pain
to the benefit of the holy souls in Purgatory, or they
undergo it to rouse a careless audience. On their mis-
sions, when their words seemed uttered in vain, they
have been known suddenly to undo their habit, and to
scourge themselves with sharp knives or razors, crying
out to the horrified people, that they would not show
mercy to their flesh, till they whom they were address-
ing took pity on their own perishing souls. Nor was
it to their own countrymen alone that this self-con-
suming charity extended; how it so happened does not
appear; perhaps a certain memento close to their house
was the earthly cause; but so it was, that for many
years the heart of Father Paul was expanded towards
a northern nation, with which, humanly speaking, he
had nothing to do. Over against St. .John and St.
Paul, the home of the Passionists on the Celian, rises
the old church and monastery of San Gregorio, the
womb, as it may be called, of English Christianity.
There had lived that great Pope, who is named our
Apostle, who was afterwards called to the chair of St.
Peter ; and thence went forth, in and after his pontifi-
cate, Augustine, Paulinus, Justus, and the other Saints
by whom our barbarous ancestors were converted. Their
names, which are now written up upon the pillars of the
portico, would almost seem to have issued forth, and
crossed over, and confronted the venerable Paul; for,
strange to say, the thought of England came into his
ordinary prayers; and in bis last years, after a vision
during Mass, as if he had been Augustine or Mellitus,
he talked of his “ sons ” in England.LOSS AND GAIN.

345

It was strange enougli that even one Italian in the
heart of Home should at that time have ambitious
thoughts of making novices or converts in this country;
but, after the venerable Founder’s death, his special in-
terest in our distant isle showed itself in another of the
same Religion. On the Apennines, near Yiterbo, there
dwelt a shepherd-boy in the first years of this century,
whose mind had early been drawn heavenward; and,
one day, as he prayed before an image of the Madonna,
he felt a vivid intimation that he was destined to preach
the Gospel under the northern sky. There appeared
no means by which a Roman peasant should be turned
into a missionary; nor did the prospect open, when this
youth found himself, first a lay brother, then a Father,
in the Congregation of the Passion. Yet, though no
external means appeared, the inward impression did not
fade; pn the contrary, it became more definite, and in
process of time, instead of the dim north, England was
engraven on his heart. And, strange to say, as years
went on, without his seeking, for he was simply under
obedience, our peasant found himself at length upon
the very shore of the stormy northern sea, whence
Caesar of old looked out for a new world to conquer ;
yet that he should cross the strait was still as little
likely as before. However, it was as likely as that he
should ever have got so near it; and he used to eye
the restless, godless waves, and wonder with himself
whether the day would ever come when he should be
carried over them. And come it did, not however by
any determination of his own, but by the same Provi-
dence which thirty years before had given him the an-
ticipation of it.

At the time of our narrative, Father Domenico de346

LOSS AND GAIN.

Matre Dei had become familiar with England ; he had
had many anxieties here, first from want of funds, then
still more from want of men. Year past after year, and,
whether fear of the severity of the rule—though that
was groundless, for it had been mitigated for England—
or the claims of other religious bodies, was the cause, his
community did not increase, and he was tempted to de-
spond. But every work has its season ; and now for
some time past that difficulty had been gradually lessen-
ing ; various zealous men, some of noble birth, others
of extensive acquirements, had entered the Congrega-
tion ; and our friend Willis, who at this time had re-
ceived the priesthood, was not the last of these accessions,
though domiciled at a distance from London. And now
the reader knows much more about the Passionists
than* did Reding at the time that he made his way to
their monastery.

The church-door came first, and, as it was open, he
entered it. It apparently was filling for service. When
he got inside, the person who immediately preceded him
dipped his finger into a vessel of water which stood at
the entrance, and offered it to Charles. Charles, igno-
rant what it meant, and awkward from his consciousness
of it, did nothing but slink aside, and look for some
place of refuge; but the whole space was open, and
there seemed no corner to retreat into. Every one, how-
ever, seemed about his own business ; no one minded
him, and so far he felt at his ease. He stood near the
door, and began to look about him. A profusion of
candles were lighting at the High Altar, which stood in
the centre of a semicircular apse. Therewere side-altars
—perhaps half-a-dozen; most of them without lights,
but, even here, solitary worshippers might be seen.LOSS AND GAIN.

347

Over one was a large old Crucifix with a lamp, and this
had a succession of visitors. They came each for five
minutes, said some prayers which were attached in a
glazed frame to the rail, and passed away. At another,
which was in a chapel at the further end of one of the
aisles, six long candles were burning, and over it was an
image. On looking attentively, Charles made out at
last that it was an image of Our Lady, and the Child
held out a rosary. Here a congregation had already
assembled, or rather was in the middle of some service,
to him unknown. It was rapid, alternate, and mono-
tonous ; and, as it seemed interminable, Reding turned
his eyes elsewhere. They fell first on one,then onanother
confessional, round each of which was a little crowd,
kneeling, waiting every one his own turn for presenting
himself for the sacrament—the men on the one side, the
women on the other. At the lower end of the church were
about three ranges of moveable benches with backs and
kneelers; the rest of the large space was open, and filled
with chairs. The growing object of attention at present
was the High Altar; and each person, as he entered,
took a chair, and kneeling down behind it, began his
prayers. At length the church got very full; rich and
poor were mixed together—artisans, well-drest youths,
Irish labourers, mothers with two or three children—the
only division being that of men from women. A set of
boys and children, mixed with some old crones, had got
possession of the altar-rail, and were hugging it with
restless motions, as if in expectation.

Though Reding had continued standing, no one would
have noticed him; but he saw the time was come for him
to kneel, and accordingly he moved into a corner-seat on
the bench nearest him. He had hardly done so, when348

LOSS AND GAIN.

a procession with lights passed from the sacristy to the
altar; something went on which he did not understand,
and then suddenly began what, by the Miserere and Ora
pro nobis, he perceived to be a litany ; a hymn followed.
Reding thought he never had been present at worship
before, so absorbed was the attention, so intense was
the devotion of the congregation. What particularly
struck him was, that whereas in the Church of England
the clergyman or the organ was every thing and the
people nothing, except so far as the clerk is their
representative, here it was just reversed. The priest
hardly spoke, or at least audibly; but the whole con-
gregation was as though one vast instrument or Pan-
harmonicon, moving all together, and, what was most
remarkable, as if self-moved. They did not seem to
require any one to prompt or direct them, though in the
Litany the choir took the alternate parts. The words
were Latin, but every one seemed to understand them
thoroughly, and to be offering up his prayers to the
Blessed Trinity, and the Incarnate Saviour, and the
great Mother of God, and the glorified Saints, with
hearts full in proportion to the energy of the sounds
they uttered. There was a little boy near him, and a
poor woman, singing at the pitch of their voices. There
was no mistaking it; Reding said to himself, “ This is a
popular religion.” He looked round at the building; it
was, as we have said, very plain, and bore the marks of
being unfinished; but the Living Temple which was mani-
fested in it needed no curious carving or rich marble to
complete it, “for the glory of God had enlightened it, and
the Lamb was the lamp thereof.” “How wonderful,” said
Charles to himself, “that people call this worship formal
and external; it seems to possess all classes, young andLOSS AND GAIN.

349

old, polished and vulgar, men and women indiscrimi-
nately ; it is the working of one Spirit in all, making
many one.”

While he was thus thinking, a change came over the
worship. A priest, or at least an assistant, had mounted
for a moment above the altar, and removed a chalice or
vessel which stood there ; he could not see distinctly. A
cloud of incense was rising on high; the people suddenly
all bowed low; what could it mean ? the truth flashed on
him, fearfully yet sweetly; it was the Blessed Sacra-
ment—it was the Lord Incarnate who was on the altar,
who had come to visit and to bless His people. It
was the Great Presence, which makes a Catholic Church
differentfrom every other placein the world; which makes
it, as no other place can be, holy. The Breviary offices
were by this timenot unknown to Reding; and as he threw
himself on the pavement, in sudden self-abasement and
joy, some words of those great Antiphons came into his
mouth, from which Willis had formerly quoted: “ 0
Adonai, et Dux domus Israel, qui Moysi in rubo appa-
ruisti; 0 Emmanuel, Exspectatio Gentium et Salvator
earurn, veni ad salvandum nos, Domine Deus noster.”

The function did not last very long after this ;
Reding, on looking up, found the congregation rapidly
diminishing, and the lights in course of extinction. He
saw he must be quick in his motions. He made his way
to a lay brother, who was waiting till the doors could be
closed, and begged to be conducted to the Superior. The
lay brother feared he might be busy at the moment, but
conducted him through the sacristy to a small neat room,
where, being left to himself, he had time to collect his
thoughts. At length the Superior appeared; he was a
man past the middle age, and had a grave yet familiar350

LOSS AND GAIN.

manner. Charles’s feelings were indescribable, but all
pleasurable. His heart beat, not with fear or anxiety,
but with the thrill of delight with which he realised that
he was beneath the shadow of a Catholic community, and
face to face with one of its priests. His trouble went in
a moment, and he could have laughed for joy. He could
hardly keep his countenance, and almost feared to be
taken for a fool. He presented the card of his railroad
companion. The good Father smiled when he saw the
name, nor did the few words which were written with
pencil on the card diminish his satisfaction. Charles
and he soon came to an understanding; he found himself
already known in the community by means of "Willis;
and it was arranged that he should take up his lodging
with his new friends forthwith, and remain there as long
as it suited him. He was to prepare for confession at
once; and it was hoped that on the following Sunday
he might be received into Catholic communion. After
that, he was, at a convenient interval, to present himself
to the Bishop, from whom he would seek the sacrament
of confirmation. Not much time was necessary for
removing his luggage from his lodgings; and in the
course of an hour from the time of his interview with
Father Superior, he was sitting by himself, with pen
and paper and his books, and with a cheerful fire, in a
small cell of his new home.

CHAPTEB XI.

A. yeby few words will conduct us to the end of our
history. It was Sunday morning about seven o’clock,
and Charles had been admitted into the communion ofLOSS AND GAIN.

361

the Catholic Church about an hour since. He was still
kneeling in the church of the Passionists before the
Tabernacle, in the possession of a deep peace and serenity
of mind, which he had not thought possible on earth.
It was more like the stillness which almost sensibly
affects the ears, when a bell that has long been tolling
stops, or when a vessel, after much tossing at sea, finds
itself in harbour. It was such as to throw him back
in memory on his earliest years, as if he were really
beginning life again. But there was more than the
happiness of childhood in his heart; he seemed to feel a
rock under his feet; it was the soliditas Gathedrce Petri.
He went on kneeling, as if he were already in Heaven,
with the throne of God before him, and angels around;
and as if to move were to lose his privilege.

At length he felt a light hand on his shoulder, and a
voice said, “ Reding, I am going; let me just say fare-
well to you before I go.” He looked around; it was
Willis, or rather Father Aloysius, in his dark Passionist
habit, with the white heart sewed in at his left breast.
Willis carried him from the church into the sacristy.
“What a joy, Reding!” he whispered, when the door
closed upon them; “ what a day of joy ! St. Edward’s
day, a doubly blessed day henceforth. My Superior let
me be present; but now I must go. You did not see me,
but I was present through the whole.” “ Oh,” said
Charles, “ what shall I say ?—the Face of God! As I
knelt, I deemed to wish to say this, and this only, with
the Patriarch, ‘ Now let me die, since I have seen thy
Face.’” “You, dear Reding,” said Father Aloysius,
“ have keen fresh feelings; mine are blunted by fami-
liarity.” “No, Willis,” he made answer, “you have
taken the better part betimes, while I have loitered.352

LOSS AND GAIN.

I

Too late have I known Thee, 0 Thou ancient Truth ;
too late have I found Thee, first and only fair.” “ All
is well, except as sin makes it ill,” said Father Aloysius;
“ if you have to lament loss of time before conversion,
I have to lament it after. If you speak of delay, must
not I of rashness F A good God overrules all things.
But I must away. Do you recollect my last words when
we parted in Devonshire P I have thought of them often
since; they were too true then. I said, ‘ Our ways
divide.’ They are different still, yet they are- the same.
Whether we shall meet again here below, who knows ?
but there will be a meeting ere long before the Throne
of God, and under the shadow of His Blessed Mother
and all Saints. ‘ Deus manifeste veniet, Deus noster, et
non silebit.’ ” Eeding took Father Aloysius’s hand, and
kissed it; as he sank on his knees, the young priest
made the sign of blessing over him. Then he vanished
through the door of the sacristy; and the new convert
sought his temporary cell, so happy in the Present, that
he had no thoughts either for the Past or the Future.

TILE END.



GILBERT AND IUYInGTON, PRINTERS, ST. JOHN’S SQUARE, LONDON. j

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