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LOSS AND GAIN 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE STORY OP A CONVERT 
 
 By JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. M/ 
 
 ADHUC MODICUM ALIQUANTULUM, 
 
 QUI VEKTURUS EST, VKXIET, ET NON TARDABIT. 
 
 JUSTUS AUTEM MEUS EX FIDE VIVIT. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 PATRICK DONAHOE, 
 
 23 Franklin Street. 
 1855. 
 
 oJbTON COLLEGE USRa^ 
 

 ^ 
 
 fK 
 
 £-10?- 
 .Lb 
 
ADVERTISEMENT, 
 
 The following tale is not intended as a work of controversy 
 in behalf of the Catholic religion, but as a description of what is 
 understood by few, — the course of thought and state of mind, or 
 rather one of those courses and states, which issue 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 principal 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 sug- 
 gesting to the reader real individuals, who were far from his 
 thoughts. 
 
 At the same time free use has been made of sayings and doings 
 which are characteristic of the time and place in whichAti^ scene 
 is laid. And, moreover, when a general truth or fact is exhibited, 
 
 (3) •/ 
 
4 * ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 as in a tale, in individual specimens of it, it is impossible that the 
 ideal representation should not more or less coincide, in spite of the 
 author's endeavor, with its existing instances or champions. 
 
 It must also be added, to prevent a further misconception, that 
 no proper representative is intended in this tale of the religious 
 opinions which had lately so much influence in the University of 
 Oxford. 
 
 February 21, 1848. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 PART I. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Charles Reding was the only son of a clergyman, who was 
 in possession of a valuable benefice in a midland county. His 
 father intended him for orders, and sent him at a proper age to 
 a public school. He had long revolved in his mind the respec- 
 tive advantages and disadvantages of public and private education, 
 and had decided in favor of the former. " Seclusion," he said, 
 " is no security for virtue. There is no telling what is in a 
 boy'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 core 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 accusing him of reserve, dear fellow ; his very love and 
 reverence for me keep him in a sort of charmed solitude. I can- 
 not expect to get at the bottom of him : 
 
 * Each in his hidden sphere of bliss or woe, 
 Owe 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 
 1* (5) 
 
6 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 the heart* of his innocence. Boys do not fully know what is 
 good and'what is evil ; they do wrong things at first almost in- 
 nocently. 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 al- 
 ready asks questions which I know not how to answer. So he 
 shall go to a public school. There he will get discipline 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 excel- 
 lences, Charles was naturally timid and retiring, over-sensitive, 
 and, though lively and cheerful, yet not without a tinge of melan- 
 choly in his character, which sometimes degenerated into mawk- 
 ishness. 
 
 To Eton, then, he went ; and there had the good fortune to 
 fall into the hands of an excellent tutor, who, while he instructed 
 him in the old Church of England principles of Mant and Doy- 
 ley, 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 learn- 
 ing he was in due time transferred, being entered at St. Savior'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 connections, 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 taste, as by your staircase. There is a 
 story of a London tradesman who lost custom after beautifying 
 his premises, because his entrance went up a step ; and we all 
 know how great is the difference between open and shut doora 
 
 ^^^^ 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 7 
 
 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 Reding was 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 admira- 
 tion and esteem. And what is thus begun is often continued 
 in afterlife 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 
 were 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 freshmanship, good talents, and the back stair- 
 case, 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, clearsighted, unembarrassed, and 
 somewhat forward : Charles, on the other hand, had little knowl- 
 edge as yet of principles or their bearings, 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, knowl- 
 edge of their tenets. What they were besides will be seen as 
 our narrative advances. 
 
8^ LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 followed 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 formosissimus 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»liis beaver, 
 and walk with him a different way. He wanted a good walk , 
 his head was stupid from his lectures ; 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 miracles," and of their " dying for their testimony," 
 till he did not know whether he himself was an ens physiologicum 
 or a totum inetaphysicum, when Jennings had cruelly asked him 
 to repeat Paley's argument ; and because he had not given it in 
 Jennings's words, friend Jennings had pursed up his lips, and 
 gone through the whole again ; so intent in his wooden enthu- 
 siasm, 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 interpo- 
 sition only equalled by that of the geese at the Capitol. For 
 that, when he had got about half through his recapitulation, 
 
L0S3 AND GAIN. 9 
 
 and was stopping at the end of a sentence to see the impression 
 he was making, that uncouth 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 co7itraire, 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 colored, closed his book, and 
 instanter sent the whole lecture out of the room. 
 
 Charles laughed in his turn, but added : " Yet, I assure 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 feehng, and has gone out of his way to do 
 me favors. I see poor bodies coming to him for charity contin- 
 ually ; 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 ? 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 excellence, 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 ; " you must 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 approved Oxford 
 bandbox cut of trimness and prettiness. Sheffield was turning into 
 the High Street, when Reding 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. Besides, our gown is 
 
10 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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's, it was quite moving. First — " " Of 
 course the pokers," interrupted Sheffield — " First the organ 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 not the least of all the 
 prayer before it — what do they call it ? " " The bidding 
 prayer," said Reding. " 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. O, it was won- 
 derful ! 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.' 
 Presently he brought out," continued Sheffield, assuming a pom- 
 pous 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 Faith, 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 sermon case on the cushion ; as though nature did not con- 
 tain, as if the human mind could not sustain, a bigger 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 recognition 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 
 vivant." Charles was amused at all this ; but he said in 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 11 
 
 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 one 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 recognizing as a bachelor 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 w^ere going 
 themselves, and they tried to keep behind him ; but they walked 
 too briskly, and he too leisurely, to allow of that. It is very diffi- 
 cult 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 a pleasant well-informed man ; 
 but when he never comes 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 en- 
 gagement, or hinders you listening to important conversation, — 
 then there is no mistake, the truth bursts on you, apparent dirce 
 fades, you are in the clutches of a bore. You may yield, or 
 you may flee ; you cannot conquer. Hence it is clear that a 
 bore 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 in not proving as 
 well as asserting it. 
 
 Sheffield bowed to him courteously, and would have proceeded 
 on his way ; but Bateman, as became his nature, would not suf- 
 fer it ; he seized him. " Are you disposed," 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 
 
12 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Oxley," Sheffield answered ; " you would be taking us out of our 
 way." " Not 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 i|.'* 
 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 
 Royal Martyr — why should we not have our St. Charles as 
 well as the Romanists ? — and it will be quite sweet to hear the 
 vesper bell tolling over the sullen moor every evening, in all 
 weathers, and amid all the changes and chances of this mortal 
 life." Sheffield asked what congregation they expected to col- 
 lect at that hour ? " That's a low view," answered Bateman ; 
 " it does not signify at all. In real Catholic churches the num- 
 ber of the congregation is nothing to the purpose ; service is for 
 those who come, not for those who stay away." " Well," said 
 Sheffield, "I understand what that means, when a Roman Cath- 
 olic says it ; for a Priest is supposed to offisr sacriiQce, 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 ? " 
 
 Bateman replied that, even if members of the University did 
 not drop in, which he expected, at least the bell would be a 
 memento far and near. " Ah, I see," retorted 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 congrega- 
 tion is outside, not inside ; 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 etfect. Do run up 
 such a bit of a wall, and put the bell in it." " There's another 
 reason," answered Bateman, " for restoring the chapel, quite in- 
 dependent of the service. It has been a chapel from time im- 
 memorial, and was consecrated by our Catholic forefathers." 
 ShetHeld 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 ofier our Mass every Sunday, 
 according to the rite of the English Cyprian, as honest Peter 
 Heylin calls him ; what would you have more ? " Whether 
 Sheffield understood this or no, at least it was beyond Charles. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. IS 
 
 Was the Common Prayer the English Mass, or the communion 
 service, or the Litany, or the sermon, or any part of these ? or 
 were Bateman's words really a confession that there were cler- 
 gymen who actually said the Popish Mass once a week ? Bate- 
 man'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 consequence, took jDlace. "Reding of St. Savior's — Bate- 
 man of Nun's Hall ; " after which ceremony, in place of holy 
 water, they managed to enter the chapel in company. 
 
 It was as pretty a building as Bateman had led them to ex- 
 pect, 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 always a piscina in the old 
 churches in England, and that there could be no proper restora- 
 tion 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 had 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. Lastly, he asked the mean- 
 ing of the candlesticks ; and was told that, Catholicly-minded 
 as their Bishop was, they had some fear lest he would object to 
 lights in service — at least at first ; but it was plain that the 
 iise 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 breakfast, in a few days, at 
 Bateman's lodgings in the Turk 
 2 
 
14 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Neither of the friends had what are called vieivs in religion : 
 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 intellectual 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 persons, 
 then, for the first time look upon the world of politics or religion, 
 all 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 
 perspective. The connection 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 secondary, — 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 connection in their minds with the world 
 of yesterday ; time is not a stream, but stands before them round 
 and 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 per- 
 sons kindle no recollections. 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 consistency 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 Con- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 15 
 
 eervative, 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 observe the mean, that they are no " party men ; " when 
 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. 
 
 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 simply at haphazard ; 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 
 lie has already 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 soiled with sinful clay, 
 
 Are yet, to eyes that see them true, 
 
 All glisten with baptismal dew. " 
 
 He liked as he walked along the road, and met laborer or horse- 
 man, gentleman or beggar, to say to himself, " He is a Chris- 
 tian." 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. Without being himself a poet, he was in the season of 
 poetry, in the sweet spring time, when the year is most beautiful, 
 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 confusion, 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 philosophy 
 and truth, but we recede from poetry. 
 
 When we ourselves were young, we once on a time 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 
 
16 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 melancholy 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 unknown 
 and full of mystery. A tree or two in the distance seemed the 
 beginning of a great wood, or park, stretching endlessly ; a hill 
 implied a vale beyond, with that vale's history ; the by-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 remained ; 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 taking up false ones. That is, he was 
 " viewy," in a bad sense of the word. He was not satisfied in- 
 tellectually 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 contro- 
 versy 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 or 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, under the notion that the authorities of the Uni- 
 versity 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 contempt. He did not see 
 why clergymen, however respectable, should be collecting un- 
 dergraduates about them ; and he heard stories of their way of 
 going on, which did not please him. Moreover, he did not like 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 17 
 
 the specimens 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 collections 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. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 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 pro- 
 ceeded on their walk. " I wish there was less of fudge and 
 humbug every where," said Sheffield ; " one might shovel off 
 cartloads 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 in 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 commonplaces 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 resurrec- 
 tion of the body, that ' all attempts to resuscitate 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 unmean- 
 ing Latin for hours — graces, dispensations, and Proctors walk- 
 ing 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 
 2* 
 
18 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Bateman, and he talks to me of rood lofts without roods, and 
 piscinae without water, and niches without images, and candle- 
 sticks without lights, and masses without Popery; till I feel, 
 with Shakspeare, that ' all the world's a stage.' Well, I go 
 to Shaw, Turner, and Brown, very different men, pupils of Dr. 
 Gloucester — you know whom I mean — and they tell us that 
 M'e ought to put up crucifixes by the wayside, in order to excite 
 religious feoh'ng." 
 
 " Well, I really think you are hard on all these people," said 
 Charles ; " it is all very much like declamation ; you would 
 destroy externals of every kind. You are like the man, in one 
 of Miss Edgeworth's novels, who shut his ears to the music, that 
 he might laugh at the dancers." " 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 ac- 
 companies the sight of the image is the music." " To those who 
 have the pious feeling, certainly," said Sheffield ; " but to put 
 up images in England in order to create the feeling, is like dan- 
 cing to create music." " I think you are hard upon England," 
 replied Charles ; " we are a religious people." " Well, I will 
 put it differently : do yon 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 I have done, when a boy, to escape dancing ; there is some- 
 thing 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 ; " O, 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." 
 
 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 eques- 
 trians take the hurdles. They then mounted the hill, and looked 
 back upon Oxford. " 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 ? " 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 19 
 
 said the other, reminded that they had been wandering from it 
 for the last ten minutes ; " O, 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 ^'ere our way, it would come naturally without 
 any one telling us. As music incites to dancing, so religion 
 Avould 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 ceremonies." " Then do you 
 mean," said Charles, " that the English Romanists are shams, be- 
 cause they use crucifixes ? " " 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 honoring 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 a 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 connection with in- 
 visible 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 be- 
 cause 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 x\ristotle, which he had lately begun 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, doubtless, 
 wishes to introduce piscinae and tabernacles ; and to wait, before 
 beginning, till they are received, is like not going into the water 
 
20 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 till you can swim." " Well, but what is Bateman the better when 
 his piscina is universal ? " 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 uni- 
 versal humbug?" "But, mj 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 mean- 
 ing, though a 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 pis- 
 cinas and candlesticks ? " "I think," answered Charles, " that 
 there's a great difference between reviving and retaining ; it may 
 be natural to retain, even while the use fails, unnatural to revive 
 when it has failed ; but this is a question of discretion and judg- 
 ment." " 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 piscinae 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 preach- 
 er 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 fit- 
 ting, 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 be- 
 longs to chaplains, I believe, that is, to persons ; I 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 
 t a sham ? Answer me this single question — why does a clergy- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 21 
 
 man wear a surplice when he reads prayers ? Nay, I will put 
 it more simply — why can only a clergyman read prayers in 
 Church ? why cannot I ? " Sheffield hesitated, and looked seri- 
 ous. " Do you know," he said, " you have just pitched on Jeremy 
 Bentham's objection. In his Church of Englandism, he pro- 
 poses, if I recollect rightly, that a parish boy should be taught 
 to read the Liturgy ; and he asks. Why send a person to the 
 University 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 ? Something of this kind, Bentham 
 says ; and," he added slowly, " to tell the truth, /don't know how 
 to answer him." Reding was surprised, and shocked, and puz- 
 zled too ; he did not know what to say ; when the conversation 
 was, perhaps fortunately, interrupted. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Every 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 reformed backwards, the 
 seats on 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 
 very 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 University, and had from time to time been a 
 guest at the parsonage. 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 to- 
 wards Faringdon ; and had promised him tickets for some ladies, 
 lionesses of his, who were coming up to the Commemoration. 
 
22 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 He was a shrewd, easy-tempered, freespoken man, of small 
 desires and no ambition ; of no very keen sensibilities or roman- 
 tic 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 rela- 
 tions, was, after a time, partially restored to himself by the un- 
 concern 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 tocarry 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 looking in at a 
 pretty little chapel on the common, which was now in the course 
 of repair. Mr. Malcolm laughed. " So, Ciiarles," he said, 
 "yowVe bit with the new fashion." Charles colored, 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 genera- 
 tion 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. Mal- 
 colm ; " but there are fashions every where. There was once a 
 spouting club, perhaps it is in favor still; before it was the 
 music room. Once geology was all the rage ; now it is theology ; 
 soon it will be architecture, or mediaeval 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." 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 23 
 
 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 neighborhood ; it was not confined 
 to Oxford. 
 
 " I don't know about the country," said Mr. Malcolm, " 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 in- 
 troduced. 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. " People 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 landscape, 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 
 saftron or tawny orange." Here he stopped : "Yes, 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 rivah-y. The separate Societies have 
 their own interests and honor 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 clergymen's 
 widows. Self-importance, jealousy, tittle tattle, are the order of 
 the day. It has alway been so in my time. The two great 
 ladies, Mrs. Vice Chancellor and Mrs. Divinity Professor, can't 
 agree, and have foUowings respectively : or Vice Chancellor him- 
 self, being a new broom, sweeps all the young masters clean out 
 of Convocation House, to their great indignation ; or Mr. Slaney, 
 Dean of St. Peter's, does not scruple to say, in a stage coach, that 
 
24 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Mr. Wood is no scholar ; on which the said Wood calls him in 
 return ' slanderous Slaney ; ' or the elderly Mr. Barge, late Senior 
 Fellow of St. Michael's, thinks that his pretty bride has not been 
 received with due honors ; or Dr. Crotchet is for years kept out 
 of his destined bishopric by a sinister influence ; or Mr. Profess- 
 or Carraway has been infamously shown up in the ' Edinburgh ' 
 by an idle fellow whom he plucked in the schools ; or {majora 
 movemus) three colleges interchange a mortal 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 approaching the bridge again, the con- 
 versation stopped. Sheffield 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 protec- 
 tion of a Master. 
 
 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 Shef- 
 field'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 vegetate very quickly ; it was sure ultimately to be pursued 
 into its consequences, and to afl^ect his existing opinions. In the 
 instance before us, he saw Sheffield's principle was more or less 
 antagonistic to his own favourite maxim, that it was a duty to 
 oe pleased with every one. Contradictions could not both b<i 
 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 latitudina- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 25 
 
 nanism (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 energize 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 perfection ; not, however, to his own satisfaction ; for, 
 with all his efforts, he had but picked up Mr. Freeborn, a young 
 Evangelical Master, with whom Sheffield was acquainted; a 
 sharp but not very wise freshman, who, having been spoiled at 
 home, and having plenty of money, professed to be cBsthetic, 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 Eng- 
 land, 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 CathoHc." " 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. You 
 recollect 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." "0, my dear, dear, Bateman," cried Sheffield, "you 
 are making Hooker Gehazi." " That's just the upshot of such 
 trilling," said Mr. Freeborn ; « 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," continued White, 
 * things change their nature altogether when they are taken up 
 
26 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 by the Catholic Church : that's how we are allowed to do evil, 
 that good may come." "What's that?^' said Bateman. 
 « Why," said White, " the Church makes evil good." " My 
 dear White," said Bateman gravely, " that's going too far ; it is 
 indeed." Mr. Freeborn suspended his breakfast operations, 
 and sat back in his chair. " Why," continued White, " is 
 not idolatry wrong ? yet image worship is right." Mr. Free- 
 born was in a state of collapse. " That's a bad instance, 
 White," said Sheffield; "there are people in the world who 
 are uncatholic enough to think image worship is wrong, as well 
 as idolatry." " A mere Jesuitical distinction," said Freeborn 
 with emotion. " Weil," 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 baptism." " Not about Christian bap- 
 tism ? " 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. "O, my dear Free- 
 born," interposed Bateman, " now you are going too far ; you are 
 indeed." " Catholic, Catholic ; ,1 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 intelligi- 
 ble." " But what do you mean by the Catholic Church ? " asked 
 Freeborn. " The Anglican," answered Bateman. " The Ro- 
 man," 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 Shef- 
 field. " 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. Free- 
 born, "two except where they agree." "That's just the issue," 
 said Sheffield ; " Bateman says that the Churches are one ex- 
 cept 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 27 
 
 dish of hot sausages ; but though a relief, it was not so much as 
 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 Free- 
 born forthwith to set Charles against him, as well as the rest ; 
 and to remove 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, put- 
 ting down his knife and fork, that it really was to him inconceiv- 
 able, 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 holiness, 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 in- 
 terpose between itself and its Creator some self-invented media- 
 tor, 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 " flattering unc- 
 tions to the soul," if they were considered necessary ; 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, every thing 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 un- 
 truly), where true faith was present, a person might be anything 
 in profession ; an Arminian, a Calvinist, an Episcopalian, a Pres- 
 byterian, a Swedenborgian — nay, a Unitarian — he would go 
 further, looking at White, a Papist, yet be in a state of salvation. 
 Freeborn came out rather more strongly than 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 hypo- 
 crites, 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 believe any thing else." Reding 
 
28 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 fair 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 humaU; 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 justified 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 Bate- 
 man. 
 
 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 sympathizer. 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 Freeborn's views by this process of badgering. At 
 least he did not improve his temper, which was suffisring. 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 conversation flagged ; there was 
 a rise in toast and muffins ; coffee cups were put aside, and tea 
 flowed freely. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Freeborn did not like to be beaten ; he began again. Re- 
 ligion, he said, was a matter of the heart ; no one could interpret 
 Scripture rightly, whose heart was not right. Till our eyes were 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 2^ 
 
 enlightened, to dispute about the sense of Scripture, to attempt 
 to deduce from Scripture, was beating about the bush : it was 
 like the blind disputing about colors. "If this is true," said 
 Bateman, " no one ought to argue about religion at all ; but you 
 were the first to do so, Freeborn." " Of course," answered 
 Freeborn, " those who have/ow/zc^ 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 them- 
 selves." "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." Freeborn 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 somewhat 
 puzzled except White, who had not been attending, and was 
 simply wearied ; he 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 Sections, 
 by the sense of the beautiful, and the good, and the holy. Re- 
 ligion is the beautiful ; the clouds, sun, and sky, the fields and 
 the woods, are religion." " This would make all religions true," 
 said Freeborn, "good and bad." "No," answered White, 
 " heathen rites are bloody and impure, not beautiful ; and Ma- 
 hometanism 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 cathedral, 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 
 3* 
 
30 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 Gon- 
 Jiteor 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 keep- 
 ing with the conversation which had preceded it, and White's 
 poetry was 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, O, 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 corruptions." "As to the Romish corruptions," an- 
 swered White, "I know very little about them." Freeborn 
 groaned audibly. "I know very little about them," repeated 
 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 irce'^ Here a general 
 burst of laughter took place. White was an Irishman. It was 
 a happy interruption ; the party rose up from the table, and a 
 tap at that minute, which sounded at the door, succeeded in sev- 
 ering 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 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 portfoHo ; 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, Sheffield, because my chapel would be useless. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 31 
 
 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 mediaeval 
 monuments round the burial-place, both sculpture and painting ? 
 Now, Sheffield, Mr. Critic, what do you say to that ? " "A most 
 admirable plan," said Sheffield, " and quite removes my objec- 
 tions. * * * A chantry! what is that? Don't they say 
 Mass in it for the dead ? " " O, 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. " O, it will be best, 
 most prudent, to leave it out; certainly, certainly." Sheffield 
 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 invoking 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. Meanwhile he 
 said, " 0, yes, true, there are some things ; but I have an ex- 
 pedient for all this; I mean to make it all allegorical. The 
 Blessed Virgin shall be the Church, and the saints shall be car- 
 dinal and other virtues ; and as to that saint's life, St. Ranieri'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 nam*es written under the rest, that 
 people mayn't take them for saints and angels. Perhaps you 
 had better have scrolls from the 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 temptation ; what's this ? 
 Here's the fiend in the shape of a cat on a wine barrel." " Real- 
 ly, 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 
 
^ LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 gown in his hand the last two minutes, nodded to his host, and 
 took his departure by himself; and White and Willis soon fol- 
 lowed 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 Catholicism, and you have spoiled 
 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 provok- 
 ingly easy ; and leaning with his back against the mantle piece, 
 and his coat tail almost playing with the spout of the kettle, 
 replied, "You had a most awkward team to drive." Then he 
 added, looking sideways at him, with his head back, " And why 
 had you, O most correct of men, the audacity to say that the 
 English Church and the Roman 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 a while ; and Charles employed him- 
 self in scraping down the soot from the back of the chimney with 
 the poker. He did not wish id speak ; but he was not sorry to 
 listen to such an argument. 
 
 " My good fellow," said Bateman, in a tone of instruction, 
 ** 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 Romish, 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 §ee that," said Bateman. 
 " Prove the two churches to h^, one," said Sheffield, " and then 
 ril prove something else." " Some paradox/' said Bateman. 
 " Of course," answered Sheffield, '• a huge one ; but your*, not 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 33 
 
 mine. Prove the English and Romish Churches to be in any 
 sense 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, suddenly put on 
 a demure look, and was silent. " We are 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 
 Sheffield ; " don't be hard with me ; what have I done ? Where 
 did the sacredness begin ? I eat my words." " O, 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 subject gravely," said Sheffield ; " I will 
 begin again. I am very sorry, indeed I am. Let me put the 
 objection 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 schis- 
 matics." " 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 Romanists ? " " 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 acknowledge their succession ; they 
 say it's our mistake." " Their succession ! " cried Bateman ; 
 " they have no succession." " Yes they have," said Sheffield ; 
 " they have a ministerial succession." " It isn't apostolical," 
 answered Bateman. " Yes, but it is evangelical, a succession of 
 doctrine," said Sheffield. " Doctrine ! evangelical ! " cried 
 Bateman ; " who ever heard ! that's not enough ; doctrine is not 
 enough without bishops." " And succession is not enough with- 
 out the Pope," answered Sheffield. "They act against the 
 bishops," said Bateman, not quite seeing whither he "was going. 
 " And we act against the Pope," said Sheffield. " We say that 
 the Pope isn't necessary," said Bateman. *' And they say that 
 bishops are not necessary," returned Sheffield. 
 
34 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 They were out of breath, and paused to sfie where tbey stood. 
 Presently Bateman said, " My good sir, this is a question o^ fact, 
 not of argumentative cleverness. The question is, whether it is 
 r.ot true that Bishops are necessary to the notion of a Church, 
 and whether it is not false that Popes are necessary." " No, 
 no," said Sheffield, " 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 a while. " The idea is preposterous," he 
 Baid : " here we have possession ; here we are established 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 posi- 
 tion, the same churches. Yes," he proceeded, " we have the very 
 same fabrics, the memorials of a thousand years, doctrine stamped, 
 and perpetuated in stone ; all the mystical teaching of the old 
 saints. What have the Methodists to do with Catholic rites ? 
 with altars, with sacrifice, with rood lofts, with fonts, with niches ? 
 they call it all superstition." " Don't be angry with me, Bateman," 
 said Sheflfteld, "and, before going, I will put forth a parable. 
 Here's the Church of England, as like a Protestant Establish- 
 ment as it can stare ; Bishops and people, all but a few like your- 
 selves, call it Protestant ; the living body calls itself Protestant ; 
 the living body abjures Catholicism, flings off the name and the 
 thing, hates the Church of Rome, laughs at sacramental power, 
 despises the Fathers, is jealous of priestcraft, is a Protestant 
 reality, is a Catholic sham. This existing reahty, which is alive 
 and no mistake, you wish to top with a filigree work of screens, 
 dorsals, pastoral staffs, crosiers, mitres, and the like. Now, most 
 excellent Bateman, will you hear my parable ? will you be 
 offended 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 determined 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 35 
 
 his head, and a pair of white kid gloves on his hands." " Away 
 with you ! get out, you graceless, hopeless fellow ! " said Bate- 
 man, discharging the sofa bolster at his head. Meanwhile Shef- 
 field ran to the door, and quickly found himself with Charles in 
 the street below. 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 Sheffield and Charles may go their way ; but we must fol- 
 low White and Willis out of Bateman's lodgings. 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 bear 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 spiritual tea 
 parties, and has introduced me to old Mr. Grimes, a good, kind- 
 hearted old fogie, but an awful evangelical, and his wife worse. 
 Grimes is the old original religious teaman, 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 Enghsh, under pretence of asking Mr. Grimes some 
 divinity question, holds forth on original sin, or justification, or 
 assurance, monopolizing the conversation. Then teathings go, 
 and a ' portion of Scripture ' comes instead ; and old Grimes ex- 
 pounds ; very good it is, doubtless, though he is a layman. 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 has- 
 socks begin. Then we go ; and Mr. Grimes and St. Mark's 
 man call it a profitable evening. I can't make out why any one 
 goes twice ; yet some men never miss." " 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." 
 
36 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 
 cnurch 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 
 the chancel — four already ; to whom do you dedicate them ? " 
 " The church is not ■wide enough for those side ones," objected 
 White. " O, 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 narrow ; " and he began to 
 measure the floor with his pocket handkerchief: " What should 
 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 Catholic girls, 
 and really kind, charitable persons into the bargain. We cannot 
 add, that they were much wiser at that time tlian 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 spirits and the tenderest 
 hearts ; and that nothing short of severe fidelity to historical 
 truth keeps us from adorning these two young persons in par- 
 ticular 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 organ of their bounty, and 
 to say a word abouth er little grandchildren, in whom they were 
 interested. As may be supposed, they did not know much of 
 matters ecclesiastical, and they knew less of themselves ; and the 
 latter defect White could not supply, though he was doing, and 
 had done, his best to remedy the former deficiency ; and every 
 meeting did a little 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 37 
 
 The two parties left the church together, and the gentlemen 
 saw the ladies home. « We were imagining, Miss Bolton," 
 White said, walking at a respectful distance from her, « we were 
 imagining St. James's a Catholic church, and trying to arrancre 
 things as they ought to be." « What was your first reform ^" 
 asked Miss Bolton. «I fear," answered White, « it would fare 
 W 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. " Impossible," said Miss Bolton ; "are women then 
 to remam Protestants.^" «0, no," answered White, "the 
 good lady will reappear only in another character; she will be 
 a widow. "And who will take her present placed" "A 
 sacristan," answered White; "a sacristan in ^ cotta. Do you 
 like the short cotta or the long?" he continued, turning to the 
 younger lady. « I? " answered Miss Charlotte ; " I always for- 
 get, 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 haye got some way in 
 our cope ; you have seen it, Mr. White ? it's such a sweet pat- 
 tern._ "Have you determined what to do with it?" asked 
 VVilhs. " Time enough to think of that," said Charlotte ; " it'll 
 take four years to finish." " Four 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. 
 O, Its not good enough for him," said Mss Bolton; "but it 
 ""•^f u t '" ''^"'^^ ^^'" ^^^ Asperges. How different all things 
 will be ! continued 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" 
 • O, you need not be afraid," said White, sagely ; " things don't go 
 so apace. Cardinals are not so cheap." " Cardinafs have %o 
 much state and stiffness," said Miss Bolton ; " I hear they never 
 walk without two servants behind them; and they always leave 
 the room directly dancing begins." " Well, I think Oxford must 
 be just cut out for cardinals," said Miss Charlotte ; " can any 
 thing be duller than the Presicent's parties ? I can fancy Dr. 
 Bone a cardinal, as he walks round the parks." "O, it's the 
 4 
 
38 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 genius of the Catholic Church," said White ; " you will under- 
 stand it better in time. No one is his own master ; even the 
 Pope cannot do as he will ; he dines by himself, and speaks by 
 precedent." " Of course he does," said Charlotte, " for he is in- 
 fallible." "Nay, if he makes mistakes in the functions," con- 
 tinued White, "he is obliged to write them down and confess 
 them, lest they should be drawn into precedents." " And he is 
 obliged, during a function, 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 confess like another 
 man." " 0, 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 Char- 
 lotte. " 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. " O, no ; he's too short for an 
 abbot," said her sister ; " but you have left out the Chancellor 
 himself : 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 com- 
 pleted your plan, Mr. White," said Miss Bolton : " the heads 
 of houses have got wives ; how can they become monks ? " 
 " 0, the wives will go into convents," said White : " Willis 
 and 1 have been making inquiries in the High Street, and they 
 are most satisfactory. Some of the houses there were once uni- 
 versity halls and inns, and will easily turn back into convents : 
 all that \\'ill 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 compulsion 
 whatever must be put on them. Th&y are the judges. But it 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 39 
 
 would be useful ho 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." " Per- 
 haps 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 Cistercians : they never speak." " O, the dear 
 Cistercians ! " 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 ceremony ; then it was performed 
 diagonally. The two ladies entered their home ; the two gen- 
 tlemen retired. 
 
 We must follow the former up stairs. When they entered 
 the drawing room, they found 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 mam- 
 ma," answered Miss Bolton ; " we went out punctually at half 
 past nine : we did not stop two minutes at your worsted shop ; 
 and here we are back again." " 'The only thing we did besides," 
 said Charlotte, " 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." 
 " O, 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." " O, 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 so very disgraceful. 
 
40 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Better not go at all." " O, dearest mamma," said the elder sis- 
 ter, " 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 good old-fashioned way. And Mr. Jones and Mr. Pear- 
 son used always to sit at least five minutes in the desk to give us 
 some law, and used to look round before beginning; 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 devotional." 
 "My dear girl," said Mrs. Bolton, " I am too old to understand 
 all this ; it's beyond me. I suppose Mr. White has been say- 
 ing 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 impos- 
 sible we should still go to church ? " " My dear Louisa, I would 
 not walk up the aisle for the world ; positively I should sink in- 
 to the earth: such a bad example. 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 peo- 
 ple would go to church if they might be late." " Well, my dear, 
 all things are changed now : in my younger days, Catholics were 
 the formal people, and we were the devotional ; now it's just the 
 reverse." " But isn't it so, dear mamma ? " said Charlotte ; 
 "isn't it something much more beautiful, this continued con- 
 course, flowing and ebbing, changing yet full, than a way of 
 praying which is as wooden as the reading desk ? — it's so free 
 and natural." " Free and easy, /think," said her mother ; " for 
 shame, Charlotte ! how can you speak against the 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, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 41 
 
 not a mere duty." *' Well, my dear love, this is more than I can 
 follow. There was young George Ashton — he always left be- 
 fore the sermon ; and when taxed with it, he said he could not 
 bear an heretical preacher : a boy of eighteen ! " " But, dear- 
 est mamma," said Charlotte, " what is to be done when a preach- 
 er is heretical ? what else can be done ? — it's so distressing to 
 a Catholic mind." '' Catholic, 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 differ- 
 ences 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 win- 
 dow, the other prepared to leave the room. " Well, it's a disap- 
 pointment to us all," said their mother ; "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 can- 
 not 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, 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, successfully 
 or not, are ever trying to solve them. Charles was of a differ- 
 ent cast of temper ; a new idea was not lost on him, but it did 
 not distress him, if it was obscure, or confflcted 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. 
 4* 
 
42 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 By means of conversations, sucb as those which we have re- 
 lated (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 many 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 ac- 
 customed, as we have seen, to fix his mind on persons, not on 
 opinions, and to determine to like what was good in every one ; 
 but 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, — he could not feel that 
 respect for a person who held what Sheffield called a sham, with 
 which he regarded him who 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 Cath- 
 olic 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 unaided human nature to be what it was not ; if by birth man 
 is fallen, and he thought him upright, he was holding an absurdi- 
 ty. He might redeem and cover this blot by a thousand excel- 
 lences, but a blot it would remain ; just as we should feel a hand- 
 some 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 benevolence, 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 43 
 
 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 dressed 
 in the morning, as he sat under the beeches of his college 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-tide was now past, and the Commemoration 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 Huntingdo- 
 nian Professor of Divinity, and one of the acutest, if not soundest, 
 academical thinkers of the day. He was a little, prim, smirking, 
 bespectacled man, bald in front, with curly black hair behind, 
 somewhat pompous in his manner, with a clear musical utter- 
 ance, 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 distinguish him by both epithets. 
 Revelation to him, instead of being the abyss of God's counsels, 
 with its dim outlines and broad shadows, was a flat sunny plain, 
 laid out with straight macadamized roads. Not, of course, that 
 he denied the divine incomprehensibility itself, with certain 
 heretics of old ; but he maintained that in Revelation all that 
 was mysterious had been left out, and nothing given us but what 
 was practical, and directly concerned us. It was, moreover, to 
 liim a marvel, that 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 un- 
 common, 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 oc- 
 casion the church was overflowing with the young men of the 
 place. 
 
 He began his sermon by observing, that it was not a little 
 
44 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 remarkable that there were so few good reasoners in the world, 
 
 considering that the discursive faculty was one of the character- 
 istics of man's nature, as contrasted with brute animals. It had 
 indeed been said that brutes reasoned ; but this was an analogi- 
 cal 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 /ctc^) of brutes reasoning. It had 
 been said, indeed, that that sagacious animal, the dog, if, in track- 
 ing 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 hypotheti- 
 cal 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, im- 
 plied an operation of abstraction, by which the clever brute had 
 first ascended to the general notion of nut crackers, which per- 
 haps he had seen in a particular instance, in silver or in steel, 
 at his master's table, and then descending, had imbodied 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 
 present occasion, that the faculty of reasoning was characteristic 
 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 centu- 
 ries, — 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, nation- 
 al, or periodic, in which the intellect reasoned upon the great 
 truths of religion ; that the fault lay, not in holding them, but 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 45 
 
 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 formularies were to be 
 regarded ; viz., they were our 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 in them ; they were to be retained in their integrity ; 
 but it was ever to be borne in mind that they were Anglican 
 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 neighbors; rather, that what seemed the very 
 reverse might suit others better, might be their mode of ex- 
 pressing the same truths. 
 
 He concluded with one word in favor 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 University till this great principle was so far admitted, 
 that they should — not indeed, give up their own distinctive 
 formularies, no — but consider their direct contradictories equal- 
 ly pleasing to the divine Author of Christianity. 
 
 Charles did not understand the full drift of the sermon ; 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 father had heard it, he would not 
 have made it an exception to his favorite dictum. He came 
 away marvelling with himself what the preacher could mean, 
 and whether he had- misunderstood him. Did he mean that 
 Unitarians were only bad reasoners, and might be as good 
 Christians as orthodox believers ? He could mean nothing else. 
 But what if, after all, he was right ? He indulged the thought 
 a while. 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 respec- 
 table, or rather 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 * * * JJi are true * * * That is the 
 
46 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 belter way of taking it ; none are shams, all are true. All are 
 true I 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 per- 
 plexity 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 dangerous one, leading with little difficulty to a suf- 
 ferance 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 shal- 
 low philosophism : — 
 
 " Father of all, in every age, 
 In every clime adored, 
 By saint, by savage, and by sage, 
 Jehovah, Jove, or Lord." 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Charles went up this term for his first examination, and this 
 caused him to remain in Oxford some days after the undergrad- 
 uate 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 Fellows' walk in the college garden. 
 
 A few years made 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 iiimself. 
 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 47 
 
 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 valetudinarian. He had 
 come oflf from school on a foundation 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 
 undergraduates under his thumb, and having some bonhommie 
 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 conversation sometimes had 
 even a touch of evangelical spirituaUty. The young men even 
 declared they could tell how much port he had taken in Com- 
 mon 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 embedded upon the heads of the gen- 
 tlemen commoners who sat under him. 
 
 He had just so much originality of mind as gave him an ex- 
 cuse for being " his own party " in religion, or what he himself 
 called being " no party man ; " and just so little that he was ever 
 mistaking shams for 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 
 simpHcity ; but he was always saying things and unsaying them, 
 balancing his thoughts in impossible positions, and guarding his 
 words by unintelUgible 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 intellect 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 
 
48 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 make a boast of avoiding their society. At the present moment 
 he was on the point of starting for a continental tour to recruit 
 himself after the labors of an Oxford year ; meanwhile he was 
 keeping hall and chapel open for such men as were waiting 
 either for Responsions, or for their battel 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 for 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 ham ; and every one ate to his heart's, or rather his 
 appetite's, content. It was a more arduous undertaking to pro- 
 vide 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 pot- 
 teries pretty quiet now? Our potteries grow in importance. 
 You need not look at the cup and saucer before you, Mr. Catley ; 
 these come from Derbyshire. But you find English crockery 
 every where on the continent. I myself found half a willow pat- 
 tern saucer in the crater of Vesuvius. Mr. Sikes, I think you 
 have heen in Italy ? " " No, sir," said Sikes ; " I was near going ; 
 my family set off a fortnight ago, but I was kept here by these 
 confounded smalls." " Your Eesponsiones" answered the tutor, 
 in a tone of rebuke ; " an unfortunate delay for you, for it is to 
 be an unusually fine season, if the meteorologists of the sister 
 University are right in their predictions. Who is in the Respon- 
 sion schools, Mr. Sikes?" "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 Buston has walked about ever since with a bulldog." 
 " These are reports, Mr. Sikes, which often flit about, but must 
 not be trusted. Mr. Patch could not have given a better proof 
 that his rejection was deserved." 
 
 A pause — during which poor Vincent hastily gobbled up two 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 49 
 
 or three moutlifuls of bread and butter, the knives and forko 
 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 overland through 
 Russia; the sea air destroys the flavor of our common tea. 
 Talking of air, Mr. Tenby, I think you are a chemist. Have 
 you paid attention to the recent 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 medicines are always unpleasant, and so these gases 
 are always 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, his ultimate resolution of fetid gases assigns to them the 
 very same precise number as is given to existing complaints in 
 the latest treatises on pathology. Each complaint has its gas. 
 And, what is still more singular, an exhausted receiver is a spe- 
 cific for certain desperate disorders. For instance, it has effected 
 several cures of hydrophobia. Mr. Seaton," he continued to a 
 freshman, who, his breakfast finished, was 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 Re- 
 ding. " England has not that brilliant variety of color," said 
 Tenby. " But there is something so soothing in green." " You 
 5 
 
50 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 colors too." " But I can't help fan- 
 cying," said Charles, " that that mixture of colors takes oif 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 begins 
 to be most beautiful. The walks and meadows are so fragrant 
 and bright now, the hay half carried, and the short new grass 
 appearing." " Reding ought to live here all through the Long," 
 said Tenby : " does any one live through the vacation, sir, in Ox- 
 ford ? " " Do you mean they die before the end of it, Mr. Ten- 
 by ? " asked Vincent. " It can't be denied," he continued, " that 
 many, like Mr. Reding, think it a most pleasant time. / am 
 fond of Oxford ; but it is not my habitat out of term time." 
 " Well, I think I should like to make it so," said Charles ; " but, 
 I suppose, undergraduates are not allowed." Mr. Vincent an- 
 swered with more than necessary 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 mysteriously. 
 Charles answered that, if it was against college rules, there was 
 no help for it ; else, were he reading 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. Reding, to your company," says Vincent. 
 
 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 al- 
 most think to-day is one of the Fasts 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 ca- 
 reer before, hastened out of the room, to task his wits how best 
 to fulfil it. The question seemed to strike the company as forci- 
 bly, for there was a sudden silence, which was succeeded by a 
 shuffling of feet and a leavetaking ; as if, though they had se- 
 cured their ham and mutton at breakfast, they did not like to 
 risk their dinner. Watkins 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 Vigil of St. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 51 
 
 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, Watkins, or currant jelly ; and some simple 
 pudding, Charlotte pudding, Watkins — that will do." 
 
 Watkins vanished. By this time, Charles found himself alone 
 with the college authority ; who began to speak to him in a more 
 confidential tone. " Mr. Eeding," said he, " I did not like to 
 question you before the others, but I conceive you had no par- 
 ticular 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. Reding, 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 always feel anxious about young men of talent ; there is 
 the greatest danger of the talent of the University being ab- 
 sorbed in party." Reding expressed a hope, that nothing 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 re- 
 marks 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. i' I assure you, sir, I know 
 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 ques- 
 tions 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 coun- 
 terfeits of truth. Clever men say true things, Mr. Reding, true 
 in their substance, but," sinking his voice to a whisper, " they go 
 
52 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 imbody great principles. The 
 Quakers represent the principle of simplicity and evangelical 
 poverty ; they even have a dress of their own, like monks. The 
 Independents represent 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. Brown- 
 side, 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 recommend 
 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 had. That, depend upon it, Mr. Reding, is the 
 golden though the obvious rule in these matters." 
 
 Charles said, in answer, that Mr. Vincent was overrating 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 Englalid doctrine 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. "Read dead au- 
 thors alone," he continued 5 " dead authors are safe. Our great 
 divines," and he stood upright, " were models ; ' there were gi- 
 ants 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 they 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 Hook- 
 er, the imaginative Taylor, the brilliant Hall, the learning of 
 Barrow, the strong sense of South, the keen logic of Chilling- 
 worth, good, honest old Burnet," &c. 
 
 There did not seem much reason why he should stop at one 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 53 
 
 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 fact he was saying very little. When he stopped, 
 Charles said he believed that there were persons in the Univer- 
 sity who were promoting the study of these authors. Mr. Vin- 
 cent looked grave. " It is true," he said ; " but, my young 
 friend, I have already hinted to you that indifferent things are 
 perverted to the purposes of party. At this moment the names 
 of some of our greatest divines are little better than a watch- 
 word, 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 draw- 
 ing attention in this lax day to the old Church of England divin- 
 ity. 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 University pulpit ; but 
 perhaps the latter advocated a toleration of opinions in a differ- 
 ent 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 the English mind, which refuses 
 to 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 hot- 
 house, or helpless dependent of the garden 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 
 5* 
 
54 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 useful 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 impHcate himself in party ? He was obliged to 
 resign himself to ignorance on the subject, and to content him- 
 self with keeping a watch over himself in future. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 No opportunity has occured of informing the reader that, 
 during the last week or two, Charles had accidentally been a 
 good deal thrown across Willis, the umbra of White at Bate- 
 man'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 great 
 fancy to himself. He certainly did court Charles, and seemed 
 anxious to stand well with him. Charles, however, 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 cruci- 
 fix, in a glass case, was a conspicuous ornament between the win- 
 dows; an engraving, representing the Blessed Trinity, as is 
 usual in Catholic countries, hung over the fireplace ; and a pic- 
 ture of the Madonna and St. Dominic 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 mis- 
 sal, 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 en- 
 gaged upon some portion of the Breviary. Virgil and Sopho- 
 cles, Herodotus and Cicero, seemed, as impure pagans, to have 
 
LOSS AND 3AIN. 55 
 
 hid themselves in corners, or flitted away, before the awful 
 presence of the Ancient Church. Charles had taken upon him- 
 self 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 Folly 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 colored, and tried to look easy. " Do come 
 a few paces with me," said Charles. " What in the world has 
 taken you there ? Is it not a dissenting meeting ? " " Dissent- 
 ing meeting ! " cried Willis, surprised and offended in his turn ; 
 " what on earth could make you think I would go to a dissent- 
 ing 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. " Reding," 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. Reding 
 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. " Rather, 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 ; but there 
 was an oath till lately," said Reding ; " 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 Reding, "i 
 was told most carefully. You solemnly engaged to keep the 
 statutes ; and one statute is, not to go into any dissenting chapel 
 
56 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 or meeting whatever." " Catholics are not dissenters," said 
 "Willis. " O, 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 dec- 
 laration 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 casu- 
 ist ; but if it is an illegal engagement, 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 law- 
 fully, that you are quit of your engagement ; but don't sail under 
 false colors: don't take the benefit, and break the stipulation." 
 *' You take it too seriously; there are half a hundred statutes ^om 
 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 walking 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 religion. It can't be right to go to strange places of 
 worship 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 know 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 Metho- 
 dists, after dear Mr. Spoutaway or the preaching cobbler, she 
 says (I have heard them), ' O, 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 Scrip- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 57 
 
 ture moveth us ? ' Really you are making too mucli of it. This 
 is only the second time I have been there, and, I tell you in ear- 
 nest, 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. " Really, Willis," he said, " I don't 
 know what to say to you. Heaven forbid that I should speak 
 against the Roman Catholics ; I know nothing about them. But 
 this I know, that you are not a Roman 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; running 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." "O, my dear Reding, please don't speak so very severe- 
 ly," said poor Willis ; " now what have I done more than you 
 would do yourself, 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 
 by, good by; 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 Roman Catholic Church is 
 the true church ? I wish I knew what to believe ; no one will 
 telt me what to believe ; 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." 
 
58 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Charles was an affectionate son, and the Long Vacation 
 passed very happily at home. He was up early, and read 
 steadily till luncheon, and then he was at the service 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 personage 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 Sunday, he had heard his dear father read 
 and preach ; there were the old monuments, with Latin inscrip- 
 tions and strange devices, the black boards with white letters, 
 the Resurgams and grinning -skulls, the fire buckets, the faded 
 militia colors, 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 imagination, 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 boy ; 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 
 happy, and I will enjoy my happiness. Some say that school 
 is the pleasantest time of one's life ; this does not exclude col- 
 lege. I suppose care is what makes life so wearing. At present 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 59 
 
 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 Vacation will soon be over ! O, 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 enjoyed 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 favorite 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 spectacles, he did all that was necessary to gain their 
 childish hearts ; more is necessary to conciliate the affection of 
 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 years, he made himself very 
 much his own centre, did not care to enter into the minds of others, 
 did not consult 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 external 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 letters, secured him his newspapers from 
 the neighboring 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 peddler, or old Isaac who played the 
 Sunday bassoon. 
 
 "How have your peaches been this year, Malcolm?" said 
 Mr. Reding one day after dinner to his guest. " You ought to 
 know that we have no peaches in Oxford," answered Mr. Malcolm. 
 *' My memory plays me false, then : I had a vision of, at least, 
 
60 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 October peaches on one occasion, and fine ones too." " Ah, you 
 mean at old Tom Spindle's the jockey's," answered Mr. Mal- 
 colm ; " 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 more expensive fruits were not cul- 
 tivated. Mulberries are the witness, not only of a full college, 
 but of simple tastes." " Charles is secretly cutting at our hot- 
 house 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. He 
 began 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, laughing too ; " don't 
 encourage him, Mr. Malcolm ; you are worse than he. Angels 
 length without breadth ! " " 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 more than scents," said Mr. Malcolm. 
 " Pardon me ; the reverse, as / think," answered Charles. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 61 
 
 " That is a paradox, Charles," said Mr. Malcolm ; " the smell 
 of roast beef never went farther than to remind a man of din- 
 ner ; but sounds are pathetic and inspiring." " Well, sir, but 
 think of this," said Charles ; " scents are complete in them- 
 selves, jet 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, laven- 
 der 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 
 dijQferent 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 com- 
 municated 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 imma- 
 terial or spiritual." " Charles hasn't been to Oxford' for noth- 
 ing," said his 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 satisfied with smelling at your 
 dinner, and grow fat upon it. It's a shame you sit down to 
 table." " Well, sir," answered 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 snuffbox 
 to keep myself awake after dinner ; but nothing more. I keep 
 a box in my pocket merely as a bawble : 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 Principal Daffy used to lay a train 
 along her arm, and fire it with her nose. Doctors of medicine 
 took it as a preservative against infection, and doctors of divinity 
 against drowsiness in church." " They take wine against infec- 
 tion now," said Mr. Reding; "it's a much surer protective." 
 " Wine ? " cried Mr. Malcolm, " O, they didn't take less wine 
 then, as you and I know. On certain solemn occasions they 
 mnde a point of getting drunk, the whole college, from the Vice 
 6 
 
62 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Principal or Sub-Warden 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, up- 
 right, iron-faced man, had to meet him in procession at Mag- 
 dalen 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 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 ; " but 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 sub- 
 ject ; " there's old Mr. Butler of Cooling ; his wig is so large and 
 full of powder, that, when he nods his head, I am sure to sneeze." 
 " Ah, but all these are accidents, young lady," said Mr. Mal- 
 colm, 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 wo- 
 man, who will make you an attentive wife." Charles slightly 
 colored, and his sister laughed as if there was some understand- 
 ing between them. Mr. Malcolm continued ; " Don't wait till 
 you want some one to buy flannel for your rheumatism or gout ; 
 marry betimes." " 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 Fellow. 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," said 
 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. 0, my 
 dear Charlie, don't let me pain you, I meant nothing serious ; but 
 somehow he has not hit it off very well with some young ladies 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 63 
 
 here, who expected more attention than he cared to give." " I 
 am sure," said Mary, " Charles is most attentive 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. " O, spare me, 
 sir," said poor Charles ; " how have I deserved this ? " " Well," 
 proceeded Mr. Malcolm, " and young ladies ought to marry be- 
 times 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 shrubbery. " 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 ; " diflferent things take us now." " He used to be so 
 kind," continued 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." 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 some- 
 thing which he held most precious ; he took a ring from his fin- 
 ger, 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 en- 
 joy God's gifts thankfully, 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, unre- 
 strained pleasure in any thing." " Why not, if you look at it as 
 
C4 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 idolize 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 fore- 
 head, 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 pros- 
 pects of a boy like me. Don't look so, I mean nothing : only it 
 annoys me." Mary smiled. " What I mean is," continued 
 Charles, " that we can rely on nothing here, and are fools if we 
 build on the future." " We can rely on each other," she repeat- 
 ed. "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. " O, 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 recollect 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 ait 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 honor, hope, or peace. 
 From Thecals all that soothes the life of man, 
 His high endeavor, and his glad success, 
 His strength to suffer, and his -will to serve. 
 But O, 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.' " 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 65 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 October came at length, and with it Charles's thoughts were 
 turned again to Oxford. One or two weeks passed 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 neigh- 
 boring 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. Yin- 
 cent. 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 dear- 
 est Charlie, and make you a blessing. May you be happier and 
 better than your father ! I have ever been blessed all my life 
 long — wonderfully blessed. Blessings have been poured on me 
 from my youth, far above my deserts ; may they be doubled up- 
 on you ! Good by, my beloved Charles, good by ! " 
 
 Charles had to pass a day or two at the house of a relative 
 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 the world again, plunged into the whirl of opinions ! 
 how sad a contrast to his tranquil home ! There was no mistak- 
 ing 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 reached it about 
 noon. 
 
 He found Willis in company with a person apparently two or 
 three years older. WiUis started on seeing him. " Who would 
 6* 
 
6B LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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, dear 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 jou ? why 
 don't you speak to me ? " Charles was still silent ; at last, 
 stooping forward, with his elbows on his knees, and his head on 
 his hands, he said in a low voice, " O Willis, 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 by." " 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. " O Willis, so you have separated yourself from us 
 forever ! " he said ; " you have taken your course, we keep ours : 
 our paths are different." " Not so," said Willis ; " you must fol- 
 low me, and we shall be one still." Charles was half oifended; 
 " Really 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 introduced you," said Willis. " Reding, 
 let me introduce Mr. Morley ; Morley, Mr. Reding. Yes, Re- 
 ding, 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 France, 
 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," 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 67 
 
 answered Reding, " you are more of a dissenter than a Cath- 
 olic. 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 way- 
 ward 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 authorities 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 have been obey- 
 ing 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 venerable priest who received him, but 
 me. The good man saw his devotion, his tears, his humihty, 
 his earnest desire ; 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 unjust to him and you," said Charles ; 
 " however, I cannot 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 lay- 
 man ; 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 pres- 
 ence of a stranger ; yet he did not feel the less confidence in his 
 cause. He paused before he answered ; then he said briefly, 
 that he was aware that he did not know the Roman Catholic 
 Religion, but he knew Mr. Willis. He could not help giving 
 his opinion that good would not come of it. " / have ever been 
 a Catholic," said Mr. Morley; "so far I cannot judge of mem- 
 bers of the Church of England ; but this I know, that the Catholic 
 Church is the only true church. I may be 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." 
 
68 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 content 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 un- 
 der 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 welt 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 mme, 
 which I have forgotten, and which was no real sample of my 
 sentiments. Do you mean I have no worship ? and does not 
 worship presuppose faith? I have much to learn, I am con- 
 scious ; but I wish to learn it from the church under whose 
 shadow my lot is cast, and with whom I am content." " He con- 
 fesses," 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 instant that Catholicism is true, is it not 
 certain that you now have an opi^ortunity 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 analyze and put into words the 
 answer which his reason suggested to Willis's rapid interroga- 
 tories. Mr. Morley had kept silence, lest Charles should have 
 two upon him at once ; but when Willis paused, and Charles did 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 69 
 
 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 pres- 
 ence ; now, however, the very question was, which was the voice 
 of Christ ? and whether 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 careful examination, — that prudence 
 was the divinely appointed means of coming at the truth. 
 " Prudence ! " cried Willis, " such prudence as St. Thomas's, I 
 suppose, when he 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 show 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 person." 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. O, 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 Protes- 
 tants, or how they were to be treated. " Excuse me, Mr. Re- 
 ding," 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 
 
70 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 sure it is not for such as me to speak harshly or unkindly to 
 you. The struggle between conviction and motives of this world 
 is often long ; may it have a happy termination in your case ! 
 Do not be oflfended if I suggest to you that the dearest and 
 closest ties, such as your connection 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 follow the dictates 
 of conscience at once ; but the conflict must continue its appoint- 
 ed 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 hurried into a profession of faith. Do 
 these things happen to people every day ? or is there some par- 
 ticular fate with me thus to be brought across religious contro- 
 versies which I am not up to ? la 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 sat- 
 isfied 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 im- 
 plied that he was inquiring after religious truth, but every Prot- 
 estant inquires ; he would not be a Protestant if he did not. Of 
 course he was seeking the truth ; it was his duty to do so ; he 
 recollected distinctly his tutor laying down, on one occasion, the 
 duty of private judgment. This was the very difference between 
 Protestants and Catholics ; Catholics begin with faith, Prot- 
 estants with inquiry ; and he ought to have said this to Willis. 
 He was provoked he had not said it ; it would have simplified 
 the question, and shown how far lie was from being unsettled. 
 Unsettled ! it was most extravagant. He wished this had but 
 struck him during the conversation, but it was a relief that it 
 struck him now ; it reconciled him to his position. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 71 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 The first day of Michaelmas term is, to an undergraduate's 
 furniture, the brightest day of the year. Much as Charles re- 
 gretted 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 strong 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. 
 
 " Well, old fellow, how are you ? " he 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 homesickness 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 par- 
 ticular 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 Romans ; 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 himself, 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 
 
72 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 discommoned, and their names stuck up against 
 the buttery door. Meanwhile the Marshal, with two bulldogs, 
 is keeping guard before the Catholic chapel ; and, to complete 
 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 atop of him." 
 
 " My dear Sheffield, how you run on ! " said Reding. " 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 assure 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 Catho- 
 lic," said Charles. " What a fool ! " cried Sheffield. There 
 was a pause. Charles felt awkward; then he said: "I can't 
 say I was surprised ; yet I should have been less surprised at 
 White." "O, White won't turn Catholic," said Sheffield; «he 
 hasn't it in him. He's a coward." " 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 con- 
 science ? " said Sheffield ; " the idea of his swallowing, of his 
 o\vn free will, the heap of rubbish which every Catholic has to 
 believe ! in cold blood, tying a collar round his neck,^and polite- 
 ly putting the chain into the hands of a priest J * * * 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 be- 
 lieve what they are obliged to profess ; but how an English- 
 man, a gentleman, a man here at Oxford, with all his advan- 
 tages, 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 Romanism to 
 me," said Charles, " it is what you so much 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 ? 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 73 
 
 I've often said to myself: *0, that I could ask St. Padl 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 Catho- 
 lics 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 r you said, ' I can't believe this or that ; ' now 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 some 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, roodlofts, 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 not say a 
 creed was every thing," answered Reding, " 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 staid up for Littlego ; 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 ; but afterwards, the more I 
 thought of what he said, the less was I satisfied; 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 Sheffield. 
 7 
 
74 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 "Dr. Pusey, on the other hand," continued Charles, "is said 
 always to be decisive. He says, * This is Apostolic, that's in 
 the Fathers ; St. Cyprian says this, St. Augustine denies that ; 
 this is safe, that's wrong ; I bid you, I forbid you.' I under- 
 stand all this ; but I don't understand having duties put on me 
 which are too much for me. I don't understand, I dislike, hav- 
 ing 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 without 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," said Sheffield ; 
 " there's Smith, 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 any 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 answl^r 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 honor the man who builds up," said Red'ing, " and I despise 
 the man who breaks down." "I am inclined to think you have 
 a wrong notion of building up and pulling down," answered 
 Sheffield ; " Coventry, in his Dissertations, makes it quite clear 
 that Christianity is not a religion of doctrines." " Who is Cov- 
 entry ? " " Not know Coventry ? he is one of the most original 
 writers of the day ; he's an American, and, I believe, a congre- 
 gationalist. O, I assure you you should read Coventry, although 
 he is wrong on the question of church government : you are not 
 well au courant with the literature of the day unless you do. 
 He is no party man ; he is a correspondent of the first men of 
 the day ; he stopped with the Dean of Oxford w^hen he was in 
 England, who has pubhshed an English edition of his ' Disser- 
 tations,' with a Preface ; and he and Lord Newlights were said 
 to be the two most witty men at the meeting of the British As- 
 sociation, two years ago." " I don't like Lord Newlights," 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." 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 75 
 
 " It's curious you should use the word principle,^' said Shef- 
 field ; " for it is that which Coventry lays such 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 Scrip- 
 ture 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 mysteries ; 
 and if you are looking for dogmatism in Scripture, it's a mis- 
 take." Charles was puzzled. "Certainly," he said, "at first 
 sight there is no Qreed 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 Scripture, 
 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, Shef- 
 field, would the Dean of Oxford say that the creed was in Scrip- 
 ture or not ? perhaps you do not fairly explain Coventry's view ; 
 what is your impression ? " " 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 represented Christianity as a revela- 
 tion of doctrines or mysteries to be received on faith ? " " Well,* 
 I may be wrong," said Sheffield, " but so I understood him." 
 " After all," said Charles, sadly, " 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 system. O, it was after you 
 went down, or just at the end of term : you don't go to sermons ; 
 I'm inclined not 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. 
 
W LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 There could not have been a lecture more unfavorable for 
 Charles's peace of mind than that in which he found himself 
 this term placed ; yet, so blind are we to the future, 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. Morley, Dr. Brownside, Mr. Vincent, and the gen- 
 eral state of Oxford, had all, in one way or other, conspired to 
 throw him. He had shown sucL abilities in 4;he 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 Reformers were introduced ; and 
 nothing was wanting, at least in the intention of the lecturer, 
 for fortifying the young inquirer in the doctrine and discipline 
 of the Church of England. 
 
 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 
 quam anter He saw that the profession of faith contained in 
 the Articles was but a patchwork of bits of orthodoxy, Luther- 
 anism, 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 particular 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 Angli- 
 cans at this day were not Calvinists, or Presbyterians, or Luther- 
 ans, equally well as Episcopalians. This historical fact did but 
 clinch the difficulty, or rather impossibility, of saying what the 
 faith of the English Church was. On almost every point of 
 dispute the authoritative standard of doctrine was vague or in- 
 consistent, and there was an imposing weight of external testi- 
 mony in favor of opposite interpretations. He stopped after 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 77 
 
 lecture once or twice, and asked information of Mr. Upton the 
 tutor, who was quite ready to give it ; but nothing came of these 
 applications 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 directly 
 given us, or whether we had to seek it for ourselves from Scrip- 
 ture. 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 ; for 
 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 judgment? This was no abstruse 
 question, and a very practical one. Had he asked a Wesleyan 
 or Independent, he would have an unconditional answer in the 
 affirmative ; 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 judgment in the determination of religious doc- 
 trine ; 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 
 EvangeHst ; when the disciples saw our Lord after the resur- 
 rection, " they worshipped Him, hut some doubted ; " yet, in 
 spite of this, he was told that there was " impatience " in the 
 very idea of desiring certainty. 
 
 At another time he asked whether the anathemas of the 
 Athanasian Creed applied to all its clauses ; for instance, 
 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 Ghost ; " or that the Holy Ghost is " by Him- 
 self God and Lord ; " or 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 did not wish to answer them ; that the Creed was 
 7* 
 
78 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 merelj 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 Incarnation " were " necessary to salvation," it being 
 a2:)parently left uncertain what those doctrines consisted in. 
 
 One day he asked how grievous sins were to be forgiven, 
 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 ; that the 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 some difficulty in receiving the doctrine of eternal 
 punishment ; it had seemed to him the* hardest doctrine of reve- 
 lation. 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 therg is nothing to try 
 it ^ " This thought fully satisfied him. The only question was. 
 Is 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 am not 
 bound to believe it, I can't beheve 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 inconsist- 
 ent with modesty and respect towai-ds himself. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 79 
 
 Charles naturally was full of the subject, and would have dis- 
 closed his perplexities to Sheflfield, had he not had a strong anti- 
 cipation 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 unintelligible; 
 and how could he prove what he could not construe ? 
 
 Bateman seemed unwilling to talk on the subject ; at last he 
 said, '' O, my dear Reding, 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 second year ; and hardly have you commenced, but you 
 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 con- 
 versation ; 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. Up- 
 ton has brought this out in liis lectures most clearly." " Now, 
 my most respectable friend," said Bateman, " do think for a 
 moment what men have signed the Articles. Perhaps King 
 Charles himself; certainly Laud, and all the great Bishops of 
 his day, and of the next generation. Think of the most ortho- 
 dox Bull, the singularly learned Pearson, the eloquent Taylor, 
 Montague, Barrow, Thorndike, good dear Bishop Home, 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." " Yes, certainly, if necessa- 
 ry," 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 
 
80 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 your advice ; however, there's some truth in it." And he changed 
 the subject. 
 
 They talked a while on indifferent matters ; but on a pause 
 Charles's thoughts fell back again to the Articles. " Tell me, 
 Bateman," he said, " as a mere matter of curiosity, how you 
 subscribed when you took your degree." " O, I had no diffi- 
 culty at all," said Bateman ; " the examples of Bull and Pear- 
 son 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'^ " " O, I had many grounds. I can't recollect in 
 a moment what happened some time ago." " O, 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 heretical," 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 author- 
 ities, 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, wheri we 
 sign the Articles, we only engage not to preach against them." 
 Reding thought ; then he said : " Tell me, Bateman, would not 
 this view of subscription to the Articles let the Unitarians into 
 the church ? " Bateman allowed it would, but the Liturgy 
 would still keep them out. Charles 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 inter- 
 preting 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 81 
 
 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 di- 
 ametrically opposed to others. One clergyman denies Apostoli- 
 cal Succession, another affirms it ; one denies the Lutheran justi- 
 fication, 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, th^t 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 schoolmen call the/orm of 
 the Articles. But perhaps the writers themselves of the Arti- 
 cles will supply it. No ; for, first, we don't know for certain 
 who the writers 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 diff'erent sentiments ; the seventeenth century 
 did not hold the doctrine 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 Church Catholic, it must, from the ne- 
 cessity of the case, hold Cathohc doctrine. Therefore, the whole 
 Catholic Creed, the acknowledged doctrine of the Fathers, of 
 St. Ignatius, St. Cyprian, St. Augustin, St. Ambrose, is the/orm, 
 is the one true sense and interpretation of the Articles. They 
 may be ambiguous in themselves ; they may have been worded 
 with various intentions by the individuals concerned in their com- 
 position : but these are accidents ; the Church knows nothing 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 as- 
 
82 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 sented ; Charles proceeded : " Then the Articles must not be 
 considered primarily as teaching ; they have no one sense in 
 themselves ; tliey 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." Bate man 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 actually happened, the theory would not hold," 
 answered Bateman ; " 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 harmo- 
 nize discrepancies. The Catholic interpretation does no greater 
 violence to the text than any other rule of interpretation will be 
 found to do." " Well, but I know nothing (^ the Fathers," said 
 Charles ; " others are in the same condition ; how am I to learn 
 practically 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 Bateman ; " the Articles them 
 selves 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 opposed," 
 answered Bateman ; " but it has never been condemned." 
 " That is no answer," said Charles, who saw by Bateman's man- 
 ner 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 successive- 
 ly 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 it drawn out before. It is 
 specious, certainly ; I don't see but it might have done, had it 
 been tolerably sanctioned ; but you have no sanction to show 
 me. It is, as it stands, a mere theory struck out by individuals. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 83 
 
 Our Church might have adopted this mode of interpreting the 
 Articles ; but from what you tell me, it certainly has not done so. 
 I am where I was." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 The thought once came across Reding, whether perhaps, 
 after all, what is called Evangelical Religion was not the true 
 Christianity : its professors, he knew, were active and influen- 
 tial, and in past times had been much persecuted. Freeborn 
 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 misunderstood him. The thought, 
 however, passed away as suddenly as it came, and perhaps 
 would not have occurred to him again, when an accident gave 
 him some data for determining the question. 
 
 One afternoon he was lounging in the Parks, gazing with sur- 
 prise on one of those extraordinary lights for which the neigh- 
 borhood of Oxford is at that season celebrated, and which, as 
 the sun went down, was coloring Marston, Elsfield, and their 
 half-denuded groves with a pale gold-and-brown hue, when he 
 found himself overtaken and addressed by the said Freeborn in 
 propria persona. Freeborn liked a tete-d-tete talk much better 
 than a dispute in a party ; he felt himself at more advantage in 
 long leisurely speeches, and he was soon put out of breath when 
 he had to bolt out or edge in his 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 get into con- 
 versation, talked of Willis's step, which Freeborn called awful ; 
 and, before Charles knew where he was, he found himself ask- 
 ing Freeborn what he meant by " faith." 
 
 " Faith," said Freeborn, " is a divine gift, and is the instru- 
 ment 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, 
 
84 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 cere- 
 monies, 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 favor; "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 favor, secured our being meet 
 for it. Thus good 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 un- 
 pleasantly reminded him of Dr. Brownside. Freeborn 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 producing good works : you say that no faith justifies hut 
 true faith, and true faith produces good works. In other words, 
 I suppose, faith, which is certain to be fruitful^ or fruitful faith, 
 justifies. This is very like saying that faith and works are the 
 joint means of justification." " O, no, no," cried Freeborn, 
 " that is deplorable doctrine : it is quite opposed to the gospel, 
 it is anti- Christian. 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 distinction of 
 this kind : for instance, the Duke of Wellington 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 85 
 
 mean ? " " Not at all," said Freeborn ; " that was Melancthon's 
 doctrine ; he explained away a cardinal truth into a mere matter 
 of words : he made faith a mere symbol, but this is a departure 
 from the pure gospel : faith is the instrument, not a symbol of 
 Justification. It is, in 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 nothing. Faith, then, must be 
 some particular Mud of apprehension : what kind ? good works 
 cannot be mistaken, but an 'apprehension' may. What, then, 
 is a true apprehension ? what is faith ? " " What need, my dear 
 friend," answered Freeborn, "of knowing metaphysically 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 analyzes 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 blessedness 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," answered Charles. " Then why suspect faith ? " 
 asked Freeborn. " Because it is, so to say, a new substance " 
 — (Freeborn sighed) — " because I am not used to it, nay, 
 because I suspect it. I must say suspect it; because, 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 
 
86 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 argu- 
 ment, 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 must 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 submission of the reason to mysteries ; nor, 
 again, is it that sort of trust which is required for exercising the 
 gift of miracles. Nor is it knowledge and acceptance of the con- 
 tents 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 seated in the heart and 
 affections." He paused, then added : " Now, I suppose, for 
 practical purposes, I have described 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 Melanchthon for 
 saying that living and operative faith justified. I have studied 
 the question very carefully." "Then do you tell me," said 
 Charles, " 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 Scripture 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. " O," he said, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. • 87 
 
 " 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 en- 
 joy. 0, if you could but be persuaded to put off high imaginations, 
 to strip yourself of your proud self, and to experience in yourself 
 the wonderful change, you would live in praise and thanksgiving, 
 instead of argument and criticism." Charles was touched by his 
 warmth ; " But," 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 pos- 
 sibly have that certainty of faith before believing, which on be- 
 lieving will be divinely given me." " Surely," said Freeborn, 
 with a grave face, " you would not compare the spiritual Chris- 
 tian, such as Luther, holding his cardinal doctrine about justifi- 
 cation, 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 devo- 
 tion 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 out- 
 ward 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 with the Papal Antichrist, and would have got off 
 to prophecy, had Charles said a word to afford fuel for discus- 
 sion. As he kept silence, Freeborn's zeal burned out, and there 
 was a break in the conversation. 
 
 After a time. Reding ventured to begin again. " If I under- 
 stand you," he said, " faith carries its own evidence 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 
 BO," said 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 danger- 
 
88 • LOSS AND GAIN, 
 
 ous 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 own 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 exactly like true faith that the event 
 alone determines their diflferences from each other. Effects im- 
 ply 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 appre- 
 hension is so vague ; it conveys no definite idea to me, yet justi- 
 fication depends on it. Is it, for instance, wanting in repentance 
 and amendment ? " " No, no," said Freeborn ; " true faith is 
 complete without 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 ^ pestilens Jigmentum,^ ' diaholi portentum.^ 
 and cries out against the Papists, ' Pereant sophistce cum sua 
 maledictd glossd ! ' " " Then it differs from false faith in 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 
 justijicat ante et sine charitate ; ' but it requires a divine light 
 to embrace it." They walked a while in silence ; then, as the 
 day was now closing in, they turned homewards, and parted 
 company when they came to the Clarendon. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 89 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Freeborn 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 savored 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 of 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 seen the last ' Spiritual .Journal ' ? " asked No. 1 
 of No. 2 in a low voice. No. 2 had just read it. " A very re- 
 markable 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 sensation. 
 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 Soci- 
 ety, was in Rome during his last illness. He solicited an au- 
 dience with the Pope, which was granted to him. He at once 
 began to address him on the necessity of a change of heart, be- 
 lief 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 fig- 
 ment of baptismal regeneration ; 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 considerable emo- 
 tion. When it was ended, he answered Mr. O'Niggins, that it 
 was his fervent hope that they two would not die without finding 
 8* 
 
90 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 themselves in one communion, or something of the sort. He de- 
 clared moreover, what was astonishing, that he put his sole trust 
 in Christ, ' the source of all merit,' as he expressed it — a re- 
 markable phrase." "In what language was the conversation 
 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 members of our own Church, who are nevertheless ac- 
 cused 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 com- 
 ing forward into light." " One ought to interpret every thing 
 for the best in a real Papist," 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 to- 
 gether 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 Para- 
 dise, — which, you know, was a denial of the doctrine of Pur- 
 gatory." " A brand from the burning, I do hope," said No. 3. 
 " It has frequently been observed," said No. 4, " nay it has struck 
 me myself, that the way to convert Romanists is iirst to convert 
 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. You see 
 now, perhaps," he said turning to Charles, " better than you did, 
 what I meant by faith the other day. This poor old man could 
 have no merit; he had passed a long life in opposing the Cross. 
 Do yorur difficulties continue ? " 
 
 Charles had thought over their former conversation very care- 
 fully 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 color- 
 ing, 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, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. $1 
 
 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 ; but then after- 
 wards it struck me, that faith is perhaps a result of a previous 
 state of mind, a blessed result of a blessed state, and therefore 
 may be considered the reward of previous obedience ; and sham 
 faith, or what merely looks like faith, a judicial punishment." In 
 proportion as the drift of the former part of this speech was un- 
 certain, so was the conclusion very distinct. There was no mis- 
 take, and an audible emotion. " There is no such thing as pre- 
 vious merit," said No. 1 ; " all is of grace." " Not merit, I 
 know," said Charles, " but " — " We must not bring in the doc- 
 trine of de condigno or de cojigruo," said No. 2. "But surely," 
 said Charles, " it is a cruel thing to say to the unlearned and the 
 multitude, ' Believe, and you are at once saved ; do not wait for 
 fruits, rejoice at once,' and neither to accompany this announce- 
 ment 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. Believe 
 that salvation is yours, and it is yours ; good works follow after.' " 
 " On the contrary," said Charles, continuing his argument, " when 
 it is said that justification follows upon baptism, we have an in- 
 telligible something pointed out, which every one 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 unbiased one." 
 
 Reding had at length succeeded in throwing that dull tea table 
 into a state of great excitement. " My dear friend," said Free- 
 born, " 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. " 1 tell you ! " 
 cried Freeborn, " when ? " " Well," said Charles, somewhat puz- 
 zled, " at least you do not think it holy." Freeborn was puzzled 
 in his turn. " If it is holy," continued 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 mo- 
 
92 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 raentary silence, and some agitation of thought. "0, 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 
 Ubrist's merits." " It is seated in the affections," said No. 3 ; 
 " faith is a feeling of the heart ; it is trust, it is a belief that 
 Christ is my Savior ; 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 holi- 
 ness 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 Galatians. 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 accompanied by 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 faith 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." " As Luther calls it ' venenum infernale^ " said Free- 
 born. " It is just what the Puseyites preach at present," said 
 No. 3. "On the contrary," said No. 1, "it is the doctrine of 
 Melanchthon. 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 sig- 
 nijicat Jiduciam ; injiducid inest diiectio ; ergo etiam dilectione 
 sumus justiJ " Three of the party cried " Impossible ; " the 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 ar- 
 ranged. It is a question of words between Luther and Melanch- 
 thon. Luther says, ahem, ' faith is without love,' meaning, ' faith 
 without love justifies.' Melanchthon, on the other hand, says, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 93 
 
 ahem, * faith is with love/ meaning, * faith justifies with love.' 
 Now both are true : for, ahem, faith- with-out-loveyw5<z^es, yet faith 
 justifies not-without-love." There was a pause, while both par- 
 ties digested this explanation. " On the contrary," he added, " it 
 is the Romish doctrine that faith-with-love justifies." Freeborn 
 expressed his dissent; he thought this the doctrine of Melanch- 
 thon which Luther condemned. " You mean," said Charles, 
 " that justification is given to faith with love, not to faith and 
 love." " You have expressed my meaning," said No. 4. " And 
 what is considered the difference between with and and ? " asked 
 Charles. No. 4 replied without hesitation, " Faith is the instru- 
 ment, love the sine qua non." Nos. 2 and 3 interposed with a 
 protest ; they thought it legal to introduce the phrase sine qua 
 non ; it was introducing conditions. Justification was uncondi- 
 tional. " But is not faith a condition ? " asked Charles. " Cer- 
 tainly not," said Freeborn ; " ' condition * is a legal word. How 
 can salvation 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 there 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 ; " that borders 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 themselves ; and 
 as it seemed as interminable as it was uninteresting. Reding took 
 an opportunity to wish his host a good night, and to slip away. 
 He never had much leaning towards the evangelical doctrine ; 
 and Freeborn and his friends, who knew what they were hold- 
 ing much better than the run of their party, satisfied him that 
 he had not much to gain by inquiring into that doctrine further. 
 So they will vanish in consequence from our pages. 
 
94: LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 sympathize 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 after- 
 noon you were at home. O piercing change ! it was but six or 
 seven weeks before, that you had passed the same objects the 
 reverse way, with what different feelings, and O, in what com- 
 pany, 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 J * * * 
 
 The funeral is over by some days ; Charles is to remain 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 havo 
 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 except in the inward consciousness of an overwhelm- 
 ing 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 they 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 especially 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 95 
 
 vivid memento of their common loss ; — aliquid desideraverunt 
 ocvli, 
 
 Mr. Reding had left his family well provided for ; and this, 
 though a real alleviation of their loss in the event, perhaps aug- 
 mented 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 neighborhood, was 
 charitable to the poor, hospitable in his housekeeping, and wa3 
 a stanch 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 byhis 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, inquiries, surmises, views, which had of 
 late haunted him on theological subjects, seemed like so many 
 shams, which flitted before him in sunbright hours, but had no 
 root in his inward nature, and fell from him, like the helpless 
 December leaves, in the hour of his aflliction. 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 Provi- 
 dence had made him. What 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 nevermore 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 by-paths, and do his best to acquit himself well in the 
 schools. The Church of England as it was, its Articles, Bishops, 
 
96 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 preachers, professors, 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 excitements, a 
 round of pious, useful work among the poor, the care of a vil- 
 lage 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 ^as a grief to himself 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 an- 
 guish 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 different ages. Youngest sons in a family, like 
 monks in a convent, 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 almost 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 
 on the side of a steep long hill or chine, looking over the Berk- 
 shire 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 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 cottage at the upper end of this vil- 
 lage, — 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 
 acquainted with their tenets and their characters ; but he did not 
 dwell upon any thing which he met with, nor attempt to deter- 
 mine 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 privi- 
 leges which the College system afforded him. Nearly a year still 
 remained before his examination ; and, as Mrs. Reding had not 
 yet fully arranged her plans, but was still with her daughters, 
 passing from friend to friend, he had listened to Sheffield's pro- 
 posal to take a tutor for the Vacation, and to find a site for their 
 gtudies in the neighborhood of Oxford. There was every 
 prospect of their both obtaining the highest honors which the 
 9 (97) 
 
98 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 schools award : they both were good scholars and clever men : 
 they had read regularly, and had had the advantage of good 
 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 lodg- 
 ings 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 waa 
 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 dinner, and watching their 
 friend as he approached them from his lodging. " He is to 
 me so taking a man ; so equable, so gentle, so considerate — he 
 brings people together, and fills them with confidence in him- 
 self, 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 im- 
 possible 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 per- 
 sons who cannot see an inch before their nose, and who can 
 comfortably digest contradictions : but Carlton is a really clever 
 man ; he is no common 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 extravagant or farfetched — not seeing 
 
LOSS AND GAIIT, 99 
 
 that by leaving it ont he has Made nonsense of the rest. He is 
 a man to rob an arch of its keystone, 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 viewy man ; I could not live with hina 
 for a week, present company always excepted." " Now, consid- 
 ering how hard I have read, and how little I have talked this 
 year past, this 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 generalizations, ideas, poetry, O, it was 
 desolation — it was a darkness which could be felt." " And 
 you staid there just six weeks out of four months, Sheffield/* 
 answered Reding. 
 
 Carlton had now joined them, and, after introductory greet- 
 ings on both sides, he too threw himself upon the turf. Shef- 
 field said : " Reding 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 make a 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 ; " but still 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 f>^ 
 ertion of influence instead of law." " But supposing, ivedmg, 
 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 contingen- 
 cies." " For instance," continued Carlton, " a prime minister, 
 I have understood, is not acknowledged in the constitution ; 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 recognized among 
 us," said Sheffield, " though extra constitutional. We call them 
 
100 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 parties ; but who would call th« Duke of Devonshire or Lord 
 John Russell, in a bad sense, a party man ? " " It seems to 
 me," said Carlton, " that the formation of a party is merely a 
 recurrence to the orginal 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," said Reding, "for it presupposes a lawgiver; 
 afterwards it supersedes influence; 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 immense personal influ- 
 ence ? we talk of the Court party ; yet it does not interfere 
 with law, it is intended to conciliate the people to the law." 
 *' But it is recognized 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 influ- 
 ence as a principle supplemental to the law, and a support to 
 the law, yet not created or defined by the law. The law does 
 not recognize what some one calls truly a 'resident gentleman' 
 in every parish. Influence, then, instead of law is not necessari- 
 ly the action of party." " So again, national character is; an in- 
 fluence distinct from the law," said vSheffield, " according to the 
 line, — ' 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 in- 
 fluence, not law, was the operating principle in both caSes. The 
 object or the means might be wrong, but the process could not 
 be called paity 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 phi'ase goes, but if there was no law to take, or if 
 there was no constituted authority to take it. It was a recur- 
 rence to the precedent of Deioces." " Manzoni gives a strik- 
 ing instance of this, ia the beginning of his Promessi Sposi" 
 said Sheffield, " when .he speaks of the protection which law 
 
I.O^S AND GAm. 101 
 
 ought to give to the weak, being in the sixteenth centary sought 
 and found almost exclusively in factions or companies. I don't 
 recollect particulars, but he describes the clergy as busy in ex- 
 tending their immunities, the nobility their privileges, the army 
 their exemptions, the trades and artisans their guilds. Even the 
 lawyers formed a union, and medical men a corporation/' 
 
 " Thus constitutions are gradually moulded and perfected," 
 said Carlton, " by extra constitutional bodies, either coming 
 under the protection of law, or else being superseded by the 
 laws providing for their objects. In the middle ages the Church 
 was a vast extra constitutional body. The German and Anglo- 
 Norman sovereigns wished to bring its operation under the law ; 
 modern parUaments have superseded its operation hy law. Then 
 the state wished to gain the right of investitures ; now the state 
 marries, registers, manages the poor, exercises 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 gradiml for- 
 mation 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 system 
 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 principles, 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 imperfect- 
 ly represented in parhament ; 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 protection 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. 
 It tends, then, ultimately to be recognized by the constitution." 
 9* 
 
lOS LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 *' There is another remarkable phenomenon of a similar kind 
 ROW 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 recog- 
 nized 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 readings, dis- 
 cussions, speeches, votings, and the like ; so the process by 
 which an act of the popular will becomes law, is a long agita- 
 tion, issuing in petitions, previous to and current with the Par- 
 liamentary process. The first instance of this was about fifty 
 or sixty years ago, when * * * Halloo ! " 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 cottage to make his 
 brief preparation for dinner. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 In a few minutes all met together at table in the small parlor, 
 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 remaining table, which acted 
 as sideboard, displayed a relay of plates, and knives and forks, 
 in the midst of octavos and duodecimos, bound and unbound, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 103 
 
 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 claspknife, a 
 hammer, and a handsome inlaid writing desk. 
 
 " I like these rides into the country," said Vincent, 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. Visit 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 noth- 
 ing." Sheffield said, that this was rather belonging to all 
 parties, than to none. " That is impossible," answered Vin- 
 cent ; " I hold it to be altogether impossible. You can't belong 
 to two parties ; there's no fear of it ; you 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, an- 
 tagonist principles correct each other. It's a piece of philoso- 
 phy which one day you will thank me for, when you are older.'* 
 "I have heard of an American illustration of this," said Shef 
 field, " 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, perhaps, they hit the mean." Vincent, 
 though he so often excited a smile in others, had no humor him- 
 self; 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 sport- 
 ing what you will consider a great paradox, I am afraid ; that 
 parties were good things, or rather necessary things." " You 
 don't do me justice," answered Vincent, " if this is what you 
 think I mean. I halve your words ; parties are not good, but 
 necessary ; Hke 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 some- 
 thing like those religious professors who say that it is sinful to 
 engage in worldly though necessary occupations ; but that the 
 
104 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 reprobate undertake them, and work for the elect." " There will 
 always be persona enough in the world who like to be party 
 men, without being told to be so," said Vincent ; " it's our busi- 
 ness to turn them to account, to use them, but to keep aloof. I 
 take it, all parties are partly right, only they go too far. I bor- 
 row from each, I cooperate with each, as far as each is right, 
 and no farther. 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 Sheffield ; " 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 progressing every day." " I was speaking of political par- 
 ties," said Carlton, " but I am disposed to extend what I said to 
 religious also." " But, my good Carlton," said Vincent, " Scrip- 
 ture speaks against religious parties." " Certainly I don't wish 
 to oppose Scripture," said Carlton, " and I speak under correc- 
 tion 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 peo- 
 ple to agree together, you must have different opinions ; 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 Shef- 
 field, " 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 private 
 judgment you have, the more parties you wiU have. You are 
 reduced, then, to this alternative, no toleration or party ; and 
 you must recognize party, unless you refuse toleration." " Shef- 
 field words it more strongly than I should do," said Carlton ; 
 " but really I mean pretty much what he says. Take the case 
 of the Roman Catholics ; they have decided many points of the- 
 'ology, 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 Conception ; they went on 
 contending because authority did not at once decide the ques- 
 tion. On the other hand, when Jesuits and Jansenists disputed 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 105 
 
 on the question of grace, the Pope gave it in favor of the Jesuits, 
 and the controversy at once came to an end." " Surely," said 
 Vincent, " my good and worthy friend, the Rev. Charles Carlton, 
 Fellow of Leicester, and sometime Ireland Essayist, is not pre- 
 ferring the Church of Rome to the Church of England." Carl- 
 ton laughed ; " You won't suspect me of that, I think," he an- 
 swered ; " no ; all I say is, that our Church, from its constitu- 
 tion, admits, approves of private judgment; and that private 
 judgment, 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 pri- 
 vate judgment allowed in our Church recognizing 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 un- 
 derstand 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, reformation, 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 should be thankful also. Party is one of our greatest 
 ornaments, 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 dishonorable in the Church, unless 
 Lord John Russell or Sir Robert Peel holds a dishonorable 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 Uttle 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. 
 
106 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 returning." "A melancholy history, any how," an- 
 swered Charles ; " most melancholy, if this is true." " Rather," 
 said Vincent, setting him right, as if he had simply made a ver- 
 bal mistake, " a most happy termination, you mean ; the only 
 thing that was left for him to do. You know he went abroad. 
 Any one who is inclined to Romanize should go abroad ; Carl- 
 ton, we shall be sending you soon. Here things are softened 
 down ; there you see the Church of Rome as it really is. I 
 have been abroad, and should know it. Such heaps of beggars 
 in the streets of Rome and Naples ; so much squalidness and 
 misery ; no cleanliness ; an utter absence of comfort ; and such 
 superstition ; and such an abuse of all true and evangelical seri- 
 ousness. They push and fight while Mass is going on ; they 
 jabber their prayers at railroad speed ; they worship the Virgin 
 as a goddess ; and they see miracles at the corner of every street. 
 Their images are awful, and their ignorance prodigious. Well, 
 Willis saw all this ; and I have it on good authority," he said mys- 
 teriously, " 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 Devonshire, who, 
 perhaps you know, is a widow ; and he has been too much for her. 
 Poor silly fellow, who would not take the advice of older heads ! 
 A friend once sent him to me ; I could make nothing of him. I 
 couldn't understand 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 suppose, thinks to be 
 as necessary as parties in a pure Protestant Church." " I can't 
 say you satisfy me, Carlton," said Charles ; " 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 Bona- 
 parte ; accidents of this kind don't affect general rules or stand- 
 ing customs." " Well, independent of this," answered Charles, 
 " I cannot think religious parties defensible on the considerations 
 which justify political. There is, to my feelings, something des- 
 picable in heading a religious party." " Was Loyola despica- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 107 
 
 ble," asked Sheffield, "or St. Dominic?" « They had the 
 sanction of their superiors," said Charles. " You are hard on 
 parties surely, Reding," said Carlton ; " a man may individually 
 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 
 realize to himself that he is forming a party." " That's more 
 difficult to conceive," said Vincent, " than any statement which 
 has been hazarded this afternoon." " Not at all difficult," an- 
 swered 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 beau- 
 ty does not know her charms." " That's narrow minded," re- 
 torted Carlton: "a man sits in his room and writes, and does 
 not know what people think of him." " I'd believe it less," per- 
 sisted Vincent ; " beauty is a fact ; influence is an effect. Effects 
 imply agents ; agency, will and consciousness." " There are 
 different modes of influence," interposed Sheffield ; " influence 
 is often spontaneous 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 Carlton ; " 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 Sheffield shall 
 get it ; and as to Carlton, he shall be my Poetry Professor, when 
 lam Convocation." 
 
 You will say, good reader, that the party took a very short 
 stroll on the hill, when we tell you that they were now stooping 
 their heads at the lowly door of the cottage : but the terse 
 " litter a scripta," abridges wondrously the rambling " vox emissa ; " 
 and there might be other things said in the course of the con- 
 versation, which history has not condescended to record. Any 
 
108 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 justice to them, as if they had not 
 lately dined. " I see you keep your tea in tin cases," said Vin- 
 cent ; " I am for glass. Don't spare the tea, Mr. Reding ; Ox- 
 ford 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 ' lagrimaJ So it is with tea, 
 and with coffee too. Put in a large quantity, pour on the water, 
 turn off the liquor ; turn it off at once — don't let it stand ; it 
 becomes poisonous. I am a great patron of tea ; the poet truly 
 says, ' It cheers, but not inebriates.' It has sometimes a singu- 
 lar effect upon my nerves ; it makes me whistle — so people tell 
 me ; I am not conscious of it. Sometimes, too, it has a dyspep- 
 tic 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, in- 
 deed. In France, that is in the country, you get nothing for 
 breakfast but acid wine and grapes; this is the other extreme, 
 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 mys- 
 teriously, " do you know the late Dr. Baillie's preventive of the 
 flatulency which tea produces ? Mr. Sheflleld, do you ? " Both 
 gave up. " Camomile flowers : a little camomile, not a great 
 deal ; some people chew rhubarb, but a little camomile 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 into 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 
 close before me. Mr. Sheffield, do me the favor to show me the 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 109 
 
 way to the stable. Good by to you, Carlton ; good night, Mr. 
 Eeding." 
 
 When they were left to themselves, Charles asked Carlton if 
 he really meant to acquit of party spirit the present party lead- 
 ers in Oxford. " You must not misunderstand 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 ; 
 however, 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 birthright as 
 Protestants. When the Church does not speak, others will 
 speak instead ; and learned men have the best right to speak. 
 Again, when learned men speak, 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 neighbor- 
 ing 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 Ke- 
 ding 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 up for the time he had wasted in the first years of his 
 residence. Charles had lost sight of him, or nearly so, since he 
 first knew him ; and at their time of life so considerable an in- 
 terval 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 the 
 Chalton party, were just turning homeward 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 
 10 
 
110 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 not proceeded very far before they were joined by Sheffield 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 Reding ; 
 " 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 Fellows from the country, I be- 
 lieve." " O, but you won't get a man like Upton," said Carlton : 
 " he knew his subjects so thoroughly. His lecture in the Agric- 
 ola, I've heard your men say, it might have been published. It 
 was a masterly, minute running comment on the text, quite ex- 
 hausting it." " Yes, 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 modern house, and by the rail only an hour from 
 London." " And £500 a year," said White ; " Mr. Bolton went 
 over the living, and told me so. It's in my future neighborhood ; 
 a very beautiful country, and a number 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, 
 the 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 your friends here, 
 White ? " said Sheffield. " My friends ! " said White ; " whom 
 can you mean ? He has written against parties and party lead- 
 ers ; and with reason, I think. O, 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 denomination of hearers." " I ! " said White ; " no 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. Ill 
 
 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 Church." " Well," said Sheffield, " one's memory plays one 
 tricks, or I should say that a friend of mine had said ten times 
 as strong tilings against our Church as any preacher in Oxford 
 ever did." " You mean me," said White, with earnestness ; 
 " you have misunderstood me grievously. I have 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." 
 
 Shelfield made an odd face, and no one spoke. White con- 
 tinued, attempting to preserve an unconcerned manner : " 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 canonizing 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 Httle about him definitely, and was 
 not able to say whether the report was true or not. So far was 
 certain, that he had returned 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 one thing more ; and 
 the subject of a letter which he had received from him corrobo- 
 rated it — that he was very strong on the point that Romanism 
 and AngHcanism were two religions ; that you could not amal- 
 
112 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 gamate 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 ne- 
 cessity of faith in order to be a Catholic. He said no one should 
 go over merely because he thought he should like it better ; that 
 he had found out by experience that no one could live on sen- 
 timent ; that the whole system of worship in the Romish Church 
 was diflferent 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, constituted 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 excitable a person, as he 
 seemed to me, is capable of exercising. 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 a while. " Vincent's 
 testimony," he said, " is either a confirmation or a mere exag- 
 geration of what you have told me, according as it is independ- 
 ent or not." Then he said to himself, " White too has more in 
 him than I thought ; he really has spoken about Willis very 
 sensibly : 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 setting sun. 
 
LOSS A.ND GAIN. 113 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A FEW days after, Carlton, Sheffield, and Reding were talk- 
 ing 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 new 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 affiard 
 it ; he has a ^ood 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 will 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 
 4Bheffield 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 awaj» by ro- 
 mance — 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 
 10* 
 
114 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 for his own. The more modest and diffident he 
 is, the more faith he has, so much the longer does he speak the 
 words of others ; but the force of circumstances, or the vigor 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 susptct," 
 said Reding, " that the last generation, whether of fathers or 
 tutors, had no very exalted ideas of clerical celibacy." " Ac- 
 cidents often clothe us with opinions which we wear for a time," 
 said Carlton. " Well, I honor people who wear their family 
 suit ; I don't honor those at all who begin with foreign fashions 
 and then abandon them." "A few years more, of life," said 
 Carlton 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 of 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 
 colored 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 himself." Carlton looked round at him sharply 
 and curiously. " I am ashamed of myself," said Charles, laugh- 
 ing 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 made a fool of myself." He 
 turned away, then turned back, and resumed ; " Why, it was 
 only this, that Sheffield fancies I have some sneaking kindness 
 fQj, * * * ceUbacy myself." " Kindness for whom ? " said 
 Carlton. " Kindness for celibacy." There was a pause, and 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. ' 115 
 
 Carlton's face somewhat changed. " O, my dear good fellow/* 
 he said, kindly, " so you are one of them ; but it will go off." 
 " Perhaps it will," said Charles : " O, 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. Reding," said Carlton, " it 
 surprises me that you should take up this notion." " It's no 
 new notion taken up," answered Charles ; " you wmII 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 in- 
 termitted, 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 
 fehould dread Thalaba's punishment." Carlton put his hand on 
 Reding's shoulder, and gently shook him to and fro ; " Well, it 
 surprises me," he said ; then, after a pause, " I have been ac- 
 customed to think both celibacy and marriage good in their way. 
 In the Church of Rome, great good, I see, comes of celibacy ; 
 but, depend on it, my dear Reding, 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 things are, a parson's wife would, in prac- 
 tical substantial usefulness, 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 expediency 
 or feasibility of the thing, but at what seemed to him best in 
 itself, artd what he could not help admiring. " 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, depend on it," said Carlton. " It is nothing to the 
 purpose, whether there is any thing in the Articles against it ; 
 
116 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 enumer- 
 ate 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 mar- 
 ried 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, Roman and 
 Anglican, come 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 practical difficulty to you 
 at this moment," said Carlton ; " no one is asking you to go 
 about on Coelebs' 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 V. 
 
 They had by this time strolled as far as Carlton's lodging, 
 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 understand, what are your reasons for jfdmiring 
 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 irritat- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 117 
 
 ing 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 left 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 begin- 
 ning, ' Increase and multiply ; ' therefore celibacy is unnatural." 
 " Supernatural," said Charles, smiling. " Is not that a word 
 without an idea ? " asked Carlton. " We are taught by Butler 
 that there is an analogy between nature and grace ; else you 
 might parallel paganism to nature, and where paganism is con- 
 trary to nature, say that it is supernatural. The Wesleyan con- 
 vulsions are preternatural; why not supernatural ?" "I really 
 think that our divines, 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 Carlton ; " I 
 want to get at what you think, you know." " It seems to me," 
 said 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 supernatural the perfection of nature." " Give me an 
 instance," said Carlton. " Why consider, Carlton ; our Lord 
 says, '^e have heard that it has been said of old time, — but / 
 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 ; O, 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 helow nature. ' Let no man 
 put asunder,' was the rule in paradise." " Still, surely the 
 idea of an Apostle, unmarried, pure, in fast and nakedness, 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 grandsons. I am not der- 
 ogating from Gideon or Caleb; I am adding to St. Paul." 
 " St. Paul's is a very particular case," said Carlton. " But he 
 himself lays down the general maxim, that it is ' good ' for a 
 man to continue as he was." " There we come to a question 
 of criticism, what ' good ' means ; I may think it means ' expe- 
 dient,' and what he says about the ' present distress ' confirms 
 it." " Well, I won't go to criticism," said Charles : " take the 
 
118 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 text, ^ in sin hath my mother conceived 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, aston- 
 ished, " 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 persons 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 a while, " / have been 
 accustomed to consider Christianity as the perfection of man as 
 a whole, body, soul, and spirit. Don't misunderstand me. Pan- 
 theists say body and intellect, leaving out the moral principle ; 
 but I say spirit as well as mind. Spirit, or the principle of re- 
 ligious faith or obedience, should be the master principle, the 
 hegemonicon. 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 intellect 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, when 
 they are treated so as to be made fit instruments of the sover- 
 eign principle." " That is what I call unnatural," said Carlton. 
 " And it is what I mean by supernatural," answered Reding, 
 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, Reding," answered Carl- 
 ton, " you make Christianity a very different religion from what 
 our Church considers it, I really think ; " and he paused a while. 
 
 " 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, comfort, 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 119 
 
 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 Ser- 
 vice." " 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 
 such persons ought to say it), pardoned at once, and has nothing 
 more to fear about his past sins?" " I should say, ' Yes,'" an- 
 swered Carlton. " Really," said 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, some- 
 how, I cannot master this idea," said Charles ; " I think most 
 serious persons, even for a little sin, would go on fidgeting them- 
 selves, and 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 themselves, their sorrow, and 
 trouble, pleasing to God ? " " Surely." " Thus a certain self- 
 infliction for sin committed 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-infliction 
 implies intention ; grief at sin is something spontaneous. When 
 you afflict yourself on purpose, then at once you pass from pure 
 Christianity." " Well," said Charles, " I certainly fancied that 
 fasting, abstinence, labors, celibacy, might be taken as a make- 
 up for sin. It is not a very farfetched 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 saying 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 highest perfection 
 here is penance," said Charles ; " but I don't know ; I don't 
 
120 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 profess to have clear ideas upon the subject/ I have talked more 
 than I like. Let us at length give over." 
 
 They did, in consequence, pass to other subjects connected 
 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 religious controver- 
 sy 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 re- 
 alize 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 apprehen- 
 sion, — would ascertain 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 circumstances, be 
 expressed in theological language ; but here he was, a young 
 man of twenty-two, professing in an hour's conversation with a 
 friend, what really were the Catholic doctrine 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 Catholi- 
 cism did in fact lie hid under his professions ; but he felt in what 
 Reding put out the presence of something, as he expressed it, 
 " very unlike the Church of England ; " something new and un- 
 pleasant 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 be- 
 hind it, which made itself felt, which struck heavily. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 121 
 
 And here we see what is meant when a jDerson says that the 
 Catholic system comes home to his mind, fulfils his ideas of reli- 
 gion, satisfies his sympathies, and the like ; and thereupon be- 
 comes 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 
 judgment; 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 chande- 
 liers, the bright ladies and the well-dressed gentlemen, say to him 
 if he came in with a greatcoat on his back, a hat on his head, 
 an umbrella under his arm, and a large stable lantern in his 
 hand ? Yet 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 the king came in to see 
 the guests, he- saw a man who had not on a wedding garment : " 
 he saw a man who determined to live in the Church as he had 
 lived out of it, who would not use his privileges, who would not 
 exchange reason for faith, who would not accommodate his 
 thoughts 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 Temple of the 
 Lord of Hosts ; who shut his eyes and speculated, when he might 
 open them and see. There is no absurdity, then, or inconsisten- 
 cy in a person first using his private judgment, and then de- 
 nouncing 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 existing. Charles, for instance, felt a diffi- 
 culty in determining how and 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, be- 
 fore him they had occurred; but these numbers had looked 
 abroad, and seen nothing around them to justify what they felt, 
 and their feelings had, in consequence, either festered within 
 11 
 
122 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 understands 
 that it numbers, corrects, harmonizes, completes them ; and he is 
 led to ask what is the authority of this foreign teaching ; and 
 then, when he finds it is what was once received in England 
 from north to south, in England from the very time that Chris- 
 tianity 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 nowhere but within her own 
 limits and those of her own colonies ; nay further, 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 who come to the Catholic Church on im- 
 perfect motives or in a wrong way ; who choose it by criticism, 
 and who, unsubdued by its majesty and its grace, go on criticiz- 
 ing when they are in it ; and who, if they persist and do not 
 learn humility, may criticize themselves out of it again. Nor is 
 it denied, on the other hand, that some who are not Catholics 
 may possibly choose (for instance) Methodism, in the above moral 
 way, viz. because it confirms and justifies the inward feeling of 
 their hearts. This is certainly possible in idea, though what 
 there is venerable, awful, superhuman, in the Wesleyan Confer- 
 ence 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 themselves 
 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 spirit, minds, and judgments, they are exalted high 
 above him. 
 
 But to return to the subject of our narrative. What a mys- 
 tery is the soul of man ! Here was Charles, bu«y with Aristotle 
 and Euripides, Thucydides and Lucretius, yet all the while grow- 
 ing 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, affection^ite heart, cpujd uot compass, did not dream of. He 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 123 
 
 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 
 bad stamped on his soul in baptism, which his good angel had 
 seen written there, and had done his zealous part to keep invio- 
 late and bright, which his own cooperation 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 odor, 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, SheflSeld had 
 been growing another ; and what that growth had been, will ap- 
 pear from a conversation which took place between the two 
 friends, and which shall be 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 to 
 walk over with him on St. Matthew's day, which, as the season 
 was line, 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 farther 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 readins: the Athanasian Creed strike 
 
124 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 question 
 were not, is that direction now binding ? the sense, the under- 
 standing 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 Shef- 
 field ; " rigid adherence to old customs surely may be the badge 
 of a party. Now -consider ; ten years ago, before the study of 
 Church history was revived, Arianism and Athanasianism either 
 were not thought of at all, or, if thought of, were considered 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 lan- 
 guage, and yet did not mean it. I think I have heard that some 
 ancient missionary of the Goths 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 bookseller 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 'Atha- 
 nasius was a very unpopular name among us.' " " One swallow 
 does not make a spring," said Charles. " This clergyman," con- 
 tinued Sheffield, " was a friend of most High Church writers of 
 the day." " Of course," said Reding, " there has always been a 
 heterodox school in our Church — I know that well enough — 
 but it never has been powerful. Your lax friend was one of 
 them." " I believe not, indeed," answered Sheffield ; " he lived 
 out of controversy, was a literary, accomplished 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, Divinity Professor ; no one will call him 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 125 
 
 in any sense a party man : he was put in by the Tories, and 
 never has committed 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 theo- 
 logical 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 major- 
 ity 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 orthodox divines of the day, a man whose 
 name ha*s never been associated with party, and the near rela- 
 tion and connection 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 project ; then added, in a 
 laughing way, ' You know you have chosen just the dullest sub- 
 ject in Church history.' Now the Councils begin with the 
 Nicene Creed, and embrace nearly all doctrinal subjects what- 
 ever." " My dear Sheffield," said Charles, " you have fallen in 
 with a particular 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," answered Shef- 
 field, " but as witnesses." " Still," said Charles, " I know per- 
 fectly well, that there was a controversy 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 Pro- 
 phecy. It is another question whether they would recognize 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 
 11* 
 
126 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 latter, or something of the kind, good old clergymen say, 
 * Certainly, certainly, O yes, it's the old Church of England 
 doctrine,' thinking it right, indeed, to be maintained, but not 
 caring themselves to maintain it, or at most professing it just 
 when mentioned, but not really thinking 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-d-pie, 
 who "has put down dissent, who has cut off the head of some 
 impudent non-protectionist, or insane chartist, or religious inno- 
 vator, 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 
 Shetfield, " understand me, I was not speaking against them. 
 I was but saying that these anti-Athanasian views were not un- 
 frequent. 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 was promoted 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 recomme'^ded, 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 stronger 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, straightlbrward 
 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 Dorchester ? Is it not plain that he 
 considered the practice of the Church to have modified, to have 
 re-interpreted its documents ? " " Why," said Charles, " the 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 127 
 
 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 of every dean, every, prebendary, every clergy- 
 man, every bishop in the whole Church, could make the Atha- 
 nasian Creed Sabellian ; I think not." " Certainly not," answered 
 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! a Unitarian 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 mem- 
 ber of the Church, Dr. Priestley might have been also. But my 
 doubt is, whether, if the Tractarian school had not risen, Priest- 
 ley might not have been, had 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 what seemed to him an attack of Sheffield's 
 upon the Church of England ; and, besides, he began to feel 
 uncomfortable misgivings and doubts whether that attack was 
 not well founded, to which he did not like to be exposed. Ac* 
 cordingly he kept silence, and, after a short interval, attempted 
 to change the subject ; but Sheffield's hand was in, and he 
 would not be balked ; 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, 
 
128 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 or country party, which is out and out the largest, has no opin- 
 ion 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 sign 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 Evan- 
 gelical ; I know you have one of the numbers of the ' Tracts of 
 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 Clark too, the celebrated Wesleyan, held the distinguish- 
 ing Sabellian 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 Athanasian 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 premises. 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 disputation. 
 And I don't Tike 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." " O 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 123 
 
 annoy you, or have expressed myself interaperately. But surely 
 one has no need to believe what so many people either disbe- 
 lieve or disregard." 
 
 The subject then dropped ; and presently Carlton overtook 
 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 puting off the payment of a bill — 
 a respite, not a deliverance. The 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 
 reminded 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, towards 
 the end of the Vacation, he had been led to speak of the num- 
 ber of religious opinions and parties in Oxford, which had so 
 many bad effects, making so many talk, so many criticize, 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 cor- 
 rect; 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 Jew- 
 ish ; and even that was removed because of its unprofitable- 
 ness. This is no derogation from the perfection of Divine Rev- 
 elation, 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 agam : " What form of 
 
130 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 religion is less objectionable than ours ? You see the incon- 
 veniences 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 plucking 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 understand 
 them, and their history makes matters worse. I put the sub- 
 ject from me altogether ; but now my examination and degree 
 are coming on, I must take it up again." " You must have been 
 put into the Article lecture early," said Carlton. " Well, per- 
 haps 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 peo- 
 ple like yourself. It should not annoy you." " But my fidget 
 is," said Charles, " lest my difficulties 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." " The pony must," answered Carl- 
 ton ; " 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 Chris- 
 tianity 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 tnust sac- 
 rifice your private judgment." " All this is very good," an- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN 131 
 
 swered Charles ; " but what is very expedient, still may be very 
 impossible. The finest words about the necessity of getting 
 home before nightfall 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 diflSculty." 
 
 Charles said, that somehow he did not like this mode of argu- 
 ing; it seemed dangerous; he did not see whither it went, where 
 it ended. Presently he said abruptly, " Why do you think there 
 are more difficulties in the Church of Rome ? " " Clearly there 
 are," answered 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 case, 
 certainly. What does it say ? " " 0, it includes infallibility, tran- 
 eubstantiation, saint worship, and the rest," said Carlton ; " I sup- 
 pose you could not quite subscribe these." " It depends," answered 
 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 Trin- 
 ity comes. Now, the Articles come on no authority ; they are 
 the views of persons in the sixteenth century ; and again, it is 
 not clear how far they are, or are not, modified by the unauthor- 
 itative views of the nineteentt^v I am obliged, then, to exerci^fi...*- 
 my own judgment ; and I CandMry declare to you, that my judg- 
 ment 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 suppose," 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 judgment, 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 Reding," said Carlton with 
 
132 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 a while 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 Reding, " 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. 
 " For example," said Charles, " they distinctly receive the Lu- 
 theran doctrine of justification 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 Melanchthon, 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 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 Rome 
 is undeniably consistent in her formularies ; this is the very 
 charge some of our writers make upon her, that she is so system- 
 atic. 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 condemn itself. Consistency is not 
 truth, but truth is consistency. Now, I am not a fit judge wheth- 
 er 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. I almost think there is 
 something in Scripture on this subject, comparing in this respect 
 the pagan and the inspired prophecies. And this has struck me 
 too, that St. Paul gives this very account of a heretic, that he is 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 133 
 
 * condemned of himself,' bearing his own condemnation on his 
 face. Moreover, I was once in the company of Freeborn (I don't 
 know if you are acquainted with him), and others of the Evan- 
 gelical party ; and they showed plainly, if they were to be trust- 
 ed, that Luther and Melanchthon 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 somewhere, 
 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 Rome is that prophet. That there is a prophet still, 
 or apostle, or messengerj 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 denounces 
 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 Germany, 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 Rome. The 
 only place where it recognizes its existence is in the Homilies, 
 and there it speaks of it as Antichrist. Nor has the Greek 
 Church any intelligible position in Anglican 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 
 anathematizes 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 favor 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 doc- 
 trine, 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 pretend^ 
 12 
 
134 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 ing 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," said 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 Chilling- 
 worth right, when he talks of Popes against Popes, Councils 
 against Councils, and so on. Certainly you will not be allowed 
 by Protestant controversialists 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 dis- 
 avow it, still, in matter of fact, consistency is truth to 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 
 infallibility 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 General 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 these 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 authority to tell me what to believe. The Ethiopian 
 said, ' How can I know, unless some man do teach me ? ' and St. 
 Paul says, ' Faith 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, cer- 
 tainly there is no creed given us in Scripture." " Our business," 
 said Carlton, " is to make the best of things, 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 bej 
 easy." " You are always kind and considerate," said Charles 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 135 
 
 « but after all, — I wish I could make you see it, — ■ you have 
 not a word to say by way of meeting my 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 conversa- 
 tion had suggested. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Vacation passed away silently and happily. Day sue 
 ceeded day in quiet routine employments, bringing insensible 
 but sure accessions to the stock of knowledge and to the intel- 
 lectual proficiency of both our students. Historians and orators 
 were read for a last time, and laid aside ; sciences were digested ; 
 commentaries were run through ; and analyses and abstracts 
 completed. It was emphatically a silent toil. While others 
 might be steaming from London to Bombay or the Havana, 
 and months in the retrospect might look like years, with Reding 
 and Sheffield the week had scarcely begun when it was found to 
 be ending ; and when October came, and they saw their 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 affi^rded them a seat ; and when they betook 
 themselves in doors, 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 wal- 
 nuts ; the tasteless, juiceless walnut ; the dark mulberry, juicy 
 but severe, and mouldy withal, as gathered 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 satisy tempus abire,^* 
 seemed written upon all. The swallows had taken leave ; the 
 
136 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 hurrying to the world, 
 who had been up on the mount ; he had lived without jars, with- 
 out distractions, without disappointments; and he was now to 
 take them as his portion. For 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 forlorn autumn. 
 With these thoughts, he put up his books and papers, and turned 
 his face towards St. Savior's. 
 
 Oxford too was not quite what it had been to him; the fresh- 
 ness 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, who claimed to have that right in them which, to 
 his imagination, 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 Vaca- 
 tion 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 con- 
 genial 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 honors — 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 137 
 
 the Unseen which is the Christian's life. He was unblemished 
 in his character, exemplary in his conduct ; but he was content 
 with what the perishable world gave him. Charles's character- 
 istic, perhaps above any thing else, was an habitual sense of the 
 Divine Presence ; a sense which, of course, did not insure unin- 
 terrupted 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. He 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 connected 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. Reli- 
 gious 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 inter- 
 est in religious questions for their own sake ; and when he had 
 deprived himself of the pursuit of them, it had been a self-de- 
 nial. Now then, when they seemed forced on him again, Shef- 
 field 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 system of espionage 
 prosecuted by various well-meaning men, who thought it would 
 be doing the University a seryice to point out such of its junior 
 members as were what is called papistically inclined. They did 
 not perceive 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 inflicting on them the in- 
 consistencies of their position. Ideas which would have lain 
 dormant or dwindled away in their minds, were thus fixed, de- 
 fined, located within them ; and the fear of the world's censure 
 no longer served to deter, when it had been actually incurred. 
 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 
 12* 
 
138 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 censure. He became a marked man in the circles of Capel 
 Hall and St. Mark's. His acquaintance with "Willis ; the ques- 
 tions 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, prying into his books. A 
 volume of sermons, of the school of the day, borrowed of a friend 
 for the sake of illustrating 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 undergraduates' 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 reclaimed 
 to be a devoted son and useful minister of the Church of Eng- 
 land ; 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 suflBce to relate interviews which took place 
 between him and the Principal and Vice Principal of his Col- 
 lege 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 sur- 
 prise ; 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 color came into his cheek ; it was a repulse inflicted only 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 139 
 
 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 com- 
 munity, and its undergraduate 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 misunderstanding, if he had been repre- 
 sented 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 expression?" He was a lean pale person, with a large 
 hook nose and spectacles ; and seemed, though a liberal in 
 creed, to be really a nursling of that early age, when Anabap- 
 tists fed the fires of Smithfield. From his years, practised tal- 
 ent, and position, he was well able to browbeat an unhappy juve- 
 nile who incurred his displeasure ; and, though he really was a 
 kindhearted 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 disrespectful to 
 some who might be better men than himself 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 wlio 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 regarding him, and Charles got more and more 
 
140 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 confused. " I think," he said, making a desperate snatch at 
 authoritative 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 pro- 
 ceeded, after a pause : " What is justification ? " " Justification," 
 * * * said Charles, repeating the word, and thinking ; then, 
 in the words of the Article, 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 que. 
 tion. What is justification ? " This was very hard, for it was 
 one of Charles's puzzles what justification 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 Prin- 
 cipal 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 infallible." Charles was silent; 
 Jennings tried to force his decision upon him. At length 
 Charles said that " only some 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's 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 an- 
 swer. " In the sense of Scripture," he said. This was true, 
 but nugatory. " Rather," said Jennings, " you understand Scrip- 
 ture in the sense of the Articles." Charles assented for peace' 
 sake. But his concession availed not ; the Vice Principal j^ur- 
 sued his advantage : " They must not interpret each other, Mr. 
 Reding, else you revolve in a circle. Let me repeat my ques- 
 tion. In what sense do you interpret the Articles ? " "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. Jen4 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 141 
 
 nings would not allow this ; it was a blind, Popish reliance ; it 
 was very well, when he first came to the University, 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. Savior's College, and had attended the Article 
 lectures, ought to hold the received view, not only as being re- 
 ceived, but as his own, with a free intellectual assent. He went 
 on to ask him by what texts he proved the Protestant doctrine 
 of justification. Charles gave two or three of the usual pas- 
 sages with such success, that the Vice Principal was secretly be- 
 ginning 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 intercession 
 of Saints ? " Charles said that he did not recollect 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 " modera- 
 tion. " 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 intercession of Saints, but does not 
 expressly say that they intercede for us," &c. Jennings sat up- 
 right in his easy chair, with indignation mounting into his fore- 
 head. At length his face became like night. '"'•That is your 
 opinion, Mr. Reding." Charles began to be frightened. " Please 
 to take up that Prayer book, and turn to the 22d Article. Now, 
 begin reading it." " ' The Romish doctrine,' " said Charles, — ■ 
 " ' the Romish doctrine concerning purgatory, pardons, worship- 
 ping and adoration as well of images as of relics, and also invo- 
 cation of Saints ' " — " Stop there," said the Vice Principal ; 
 " read those words again." " ' And also invocation of Saints.' " 
 " Now, Mr. Reding." Charles was puzzled, thought he had made 
 some blunder, could not find it, and was silent. "Well, Mr. 
 Reding ? " 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 invocation^ 
 Jennings gave a little start in his arm chair, and slightly col- 
 ored, ** Eh ? " he said ; " give me the book." He slowly read the 
 
142 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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. Reding, you actually mean to shelter yourself by that sub- 
 tle 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 Romish 
 abomination. I am ashamed of you, Mr. Reding ; I am pained 
 and hurt that a young man of your promise, of good ability, 
 and excellent morals, should be guilty of so gross an evasion of 
 the authoritative documents of our Church, such an outrage upon 
 common sense, so indecent a violation 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 sophistries and Jesuitries which unhappily 
 have found entrance 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 Princi- 
 pal — a worthy man in his generation, who before 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, fall- 
 ing on evil times, was permitted, for inscrutable purposes, to give 
 evidence of that evil puritanical leaven which was a secret ele- 
 ment 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 Bachelor ? 
 O, 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 in- 
 terval, reflection, and study, and absence perhaps from danger- 
 ous companions, will have brought you to a soberer state of mind, 
 Mr. Reding." Charles was shocked at the language used 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 143 
 
 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 ^id 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 depth of his inside, " You will 
 introduce them, sir, to some subtle Jesuit — to some subtle Jesuit, 
 Mr. Reding." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Mrs. Reding was by this time settled in the neighborhood 
 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 read- 
 ing about." " My dear Cary, you would not be much the wiser 
 if I did," answered Charles ; " it is Greek history." " O," said 
 Caroline, " I know more than you think ; I have read Gold- 
 smith, and good part of Rollin, besides Pope's Homer." " Cap- 
 ital ! " said Charles ; " well, I am reading ab6ut Pelopidas, who 
 was he ? " " Pelopidas ! " answered Caroline, " I ought to know. 
 O, 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 ? " " O, he 
 was alive ; somebody ate him, I think." " Well, was he a god 
 or a man ? " said Charles. " 0, 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 
 
144 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 at random ; think before 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. " O, Cary," said 
 Eliza, "don't you recollect the memoria technical" "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, hke flowers in a bed ; but I don't like yonr artificial 
 flower pots." " But surely," said Charles, " a memoria techmca 
 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 techmca." " 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, which we put on our heads, then why 
 < abul-distof ' should stand for 1520/' "0 my dear child," said 
 Mrs. Reding, " 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 generalization." " Keep it, 
 then, for the schools, my dear ; I dare say it will do you good 
 there," continued Mrs. Reding, while she continued her hem- 
 ming ; " 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." 
 " Rather," 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, ' O 
 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 145 
 
 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 re- 
 ceives the rivers, yet is not full." "That's somewhere in Scrip- 
 ture," said EHza. « In the Preacher," said Charles, and he con- 
 tinued the quotation ; " ' All things are full of labor, man can- 
 not 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 
 weariness 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. 
 " O, 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 noth- 
 ing of the rich 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 Magdalen Water Walk, 
 for instance, in October ; it is quite wonderful, the variety of 
 colors. 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." 
 13 
 
146 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 " Surely," said Mary, " colors 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 reptiles, which are as beautiful and 
 bright as tulips or cherries, 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. " O, my dear 
 mother," he answered, " 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 
 death bed 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, " Yes, but there was 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. Reding, " you don't go 
 out walking these fine days because there was no autumn in the 
 garden of Eden ? " " O," said Charles, laughing, " it is cruel to 
 bring me so to book. What I meant was, that my reading was 
 a direct obstacle to walking, and that the fine weather did not 
 tempt rae 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 Gandy 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. Reding, " 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 honors, I know, mamma ; but if he is to get them, he must 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 147 
 
 read a great deal." " True, my love," answered Mrs. Reding ; 
 " 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 Beethoven, 
 the one I call ' The voice of the dead.' " " 0, 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; ' and he says that the sound of the -^Eolian harp is 
 'remorseful.'" " 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." " O, 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. 
 
 Charles'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 substance, 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 sur- 
 mounted. The particular form of argument into which they 
 happened to fall, was determined by the circumstances in which 
 he found himself at the time, and was this, viz. : how he could 
 subscribe the Article ex cmimo, 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 difiiculties was a great source of distress to 
 
148 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Charles. It was aggravated by the circumstance that he had 
 no one to talk to, or to sympathize 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 depression 
 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 having been on the best 
 terms with the whole College, and in particular with the Prin- 
 cipal and Jennings, 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." " 0, 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, ought to be obliged to them." 
 " I have been so very careful, Mary," said Charles ; " I have 
 never been to the evening 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 lold me at once what was coming. 
 It's odd a man of such self-command as he, should not better 
 hide his feelings; but I have always been able to see what Jen- 
 nings was thinking about." " Depend on it," said his sister, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 149 
 
 "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 reading. I fell back think- 
 ing of it, and cannot give my mind to my books, or exert my- 
 self. 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 divis- 
 ion." " 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 
 molehill. 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 take my degree, 
 any more than reside there." " That is very absurd," said she ; 
 " it's what I meant by brooding over things, and making moun- 
 tains of molehills." " My sweet Mary," he said, affectionately tak- 
 ing her hand, " my only real confidant and comfort, I would tell 
 you something more, if you could bear 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 distress- 
 ing 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 bear 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 
 Jennings, 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 will 
 13* 
 
150 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 bear 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 ray place, not my position, perhaps they are right ; 
 perhaps it isn't." " But is that really all ? " she said ; " who 
 wants you to lead an Oxford life ? not we." " No, but Oxford 
 implies taking a degree — taking orders." " Now, my dear 
 Charles, speak out; don't drop hints; let me know;" and she 
 sat down with a look of great anxiety. " Well," he said, mak- 
 ing 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 1 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 apprehen- 
 sion, 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 Col- 
 lege bears its witness, and sends me down." " O, 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 continued : " Don't you recollect those lines in 
 the Christian Tear ? 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 151 
 
 you go up for honors ? what's the good of it ? " There was a 
 pause again. 
 
 " I wish I could bring home to you," said Charles, " the num- 
 ber 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 ? I cannot bear the pomp and 
 pretence which I see every where. I am not speaking 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, con- 
 descending 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 then 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 sheep- 
 skin to keep their feet from the stones." Mary laughed : " Well, 
 my dear Charles," she said, " I did not think you had seen so 
 much of Bishops, Deans, Professors, and Heads of houses at St. 
 Savior'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 criticize my instances or my terms. What I mean is, 
 that there is a worldly air about every thing, as unlike as possi- 
 ble the spirit of the Gospels. I don't impute to the dons am- 
 bition or avarice ; but still, what Heads of houses. Fellows, 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 
 
152 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 their immediate object is to be comfortable, to marry, to have a 
 fair income, station, and respectability, a convenient house, a 
 pleasant country, a sociable neighborhood. 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," said Mary ; " but I can't 
 think all the young clever men of the place are looking out for 
 ease and comfort ; nor can I believe that in the Church of Rome 
 money has always been put to the best of purposes." " I said 
 nothing about the Church of Rome," said Charles ; " why do 
 you bring in the Church of Rome ? 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 worse 
 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 rehgion. I de* 
 Glare, I think that is the reason why the Puseyites are so un- 
 popular." " 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 almost 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 related 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 extraordinary 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 ; " 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 con- 
 viction flashed on my mind, that the Church of England really 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 153 
 
 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 Roman Catholic." 
 "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 wiliy 
 
 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Neither to brother nor to sister had the conversation been a 
 satisfaction or relief. " I can go nowhere for sympathy," thought 
 Charles ; " dear Mary does not understand me more than others. 
 I can't bring out what I mean and feel ; and when I attempt to 
 do so, my statements 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, 
 
154 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 and might as well have held my tongue. I have simply pained 
 her, without relieving myself. By the by, she has gone off be- 
 lieving about twice as much as the fact. I was going to set her 
 right, when Gary 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 Catholics. 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 have said, 
 * D'you know, I have serious thoughts of reading law ? ' 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 sis- 
 ters occupied her mind in a different 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's 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 clergymen be- 
 ing 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 incom- 
 prehensible, 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 sharpsighted, could say nothing 
 better in defence of himself than tha't Mrs. Bishop of Monmouth 
 was too pretty, and that old Dr. Stock sat upon a cushion. O, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 155 
 
 ead, sad indeed ! How it was 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 Advent itself, 
 with" the Lessons from Isaiah reaching on 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 
 confidence which it never could recover ; it was gone forever. 
 They were all of them women but he ; he was their only stay, 
 now that her father had been taken away. What was now to 
 become of them ? To be abandoned by her own brother ! O, 
 how terrible ! 
 
 And how was she to break it to her mother ? for broken it 
 must be sooner or later. She could not deceive 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 calculation. 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 ? The problem was too difficult for the present, and 
 she 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 
 
156 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 latent but habitual element, leaving her as usual at ordinary 
 times, but every now and then betraying itself by sudden sharp 
 sighs or wanderings of thought. Neither brother nor sister, lov- 
 ing each other really as much as ever, had quite the same sweet- 
 ness and evenness of temper as were natural to them ; self-control 
 became a duty, and the evening circle was duller than before, 
 ■without any one being able to say why. Charles was more at- 
 tentive to his mother ; he no more brought his books into the 
 drawing room, but gave himself 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 himself 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 observa- 
 tion ; and having lived all her life in the country, and till heji 
 late loss having scarcely known what trouble was, she was sin 
 gularly unable to comprehend how things could go on in any way 
 but one. Charles had not told her the real cause of his spend- 
 ing the winter at home, thinking it would be a needless vexation 
 to her ; much less did he contemplate harassing her with the re- 
 cital of his own religious difficulties, which were not appreciable 
 by her, and issued in no definite result. To his sister he did at- 
 tempt an explanation of his former conversation, with a view of 
 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 suspicion was lodged deep in 
 her mind, — he was still Charles, dear to her as ever, but she 
 never could rid herself 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. Descending, he saw the 
 tall slender figure of Bateman, now a clergyman, and lately ap- 
 pointed curate of a neighboring parish. Charles had not seen 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 157 
 
 him for a year and a half, and shook hands with him very warm- 
 ly, coraphraenting 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 Boughton and Melford. Bateman 
 could not do this, but he would have the greatest pleasure in be- 
 ing 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," said Bateman, 
 " when you are once inside the housd It does not promise out- 
 side so extensive a view." " No, it is shut in with trees," said 
 Mrs. Reding; " and thebrow 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 Bate- 
 man. " 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 ancestors did a good 
 deal too," said Mrs. Reding ; " how many churches, my dear, 
 were built in London in Queen Anne's time ? St. Martin's was 
 one of them." " Fifty," said Eliza. " Fifty were intended," 
 said Charles. " Yes, Mrs. Reding," said Bateman ; " but by an- 
 cestors 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^ 
 14 
 
158 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 the 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 incum- 
 bents contentedly 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 im- 
 provement line at Melford. Bateman looked modest. " Noth- 
 ing 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 feel- 
 ing, 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 church wardens and vestries, as well as with old 
 rectors, and again with the gentry of Ihe 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 familiarize 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 approve of the cassock, Mrs. Re- 
 ding ? " " 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." " O, 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 continu- 
 ation of a waistcoat, the straight-cut coat being worn as usual. 
 Well, Miss 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. " Impossible, 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 
 boys as I pass say, ' That's the parson.' " " I'll be bound they 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 159 
 
 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, " thank 
 you 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 conde- 
 scension 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 Bateman ; " 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 amiable, lest 
 he should be saying too much ; " since you are full tall, you 
 must kneel when you preach, Bateman, else you will undo your 
 own alterations." Bateman looked pleased. " I have antici- 
 pated you," he said ; " I preach sitting. It is more comfortable 
 to antiquity and to reason 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 ? " " O, not at all, far from it," cried 
 Bateman ; " but they can do nothing. The alteration is so sim- 
 ple." " Any thing besides ? " asked Charles. " Nothing in the 
 architectural way," answered he ; " but one thing more in the 
 way of observances. I have fortunately 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 re'ad it. Our church is emphatically the ' poor man's 
 church,' Mrs. Reding." " Well," said Charles to himself, " 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, 
 
160 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 was now led oflP again, and was soon in the aforesaid terrace 
 walk, pacing up and down in earnest conversation with Charles. 
 
 " Reding, mj good fellow," said he, " what is the meaning of 
 this report concerning you, which is every where about?" "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 possible : 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. 
 They say you are going to leave the Church of your baptism for 
 the Church of Rome." " Is it widely spread ? " asked Charles 
 coolly. " O, yes ; I heard it in London ; have had a letter men- 
 tioning it from Oxford ; and a friend of mine heard it given out 
 as positive at a visitation dinner 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 ? O, certainly ; don't you understand 
 that's why I am reading so hard for the schools ? " said Charles. 
 " Come, be serious for a moment, Reding," 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 ? " " O, to 
 be sure," said Charles, " contradict it by all means, contradict 
 it entirely.'* " May I give it a plain, unqualified, unconditional, 
 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 utterly inexcusable, 
 in a person like yourself, who had known what the Church of 
 England was ; not a Dissenter, not an unlettered layman ; but 
 one who had been at Oxford, who had come across so many ex- 
 cellent 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 candlesticks, 
 ciboriums, faldstools, lecterns, antependiums, piscinas, roodlofts, 
 and sedilia ; who, in fact, had seen the 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," 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 161 
 
 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 subject." " What ! I suppose he told people 
 right and left," said Reding. " O, 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. Savior'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, 
 Shefl&eld 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 
 — ^ 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 over- 
 worked where you are. If you are so at any time, don't scruple 
 to drop into 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 
 Romanism. 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 by to you, 
 good by." 
 
 14* 
 
162 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 Much as Charles loved and prized the company of his mother 
 and sisters, he was not sorry to have gentlemen's society ; so he 
 accepted with pleasure an invitation 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 said 
 Bateman, with all his want of common sense, was really a well- 
 informed man, and well read in English divines, he thought 
 he might incidentally hear something from him which he could 
 turn to account. When he got to Melford, he found a Mr. Camp- 
 bell had been asked to meet him ; a young Cambridge rector 
 of a neighboring 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 conversation 
 at dinner turned on the revival of Gothic architecture — an 
 event which gave unmixed satisfaction to all parties. The sub- 
 ject would have died out almost as soon as it was starteci^ for 
 want of a difference upon it, had not Bateman happily gone on 
 boldly to declare, that, if he had his will, there should be no ar- 
 chitecture in the English churches but Gothic, and no music but 
 Gregorian. This was a good thesis, distinctly put, and gave 
 scope for a very pretty quarrel. Reding said, that all these ad- 
 juncts of worship, whether music or architecture, were national ; 
 they were the mode in which religious 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 to be merry in one's own 
 way. " The Greeks," he said, " cut the hair in grief, the Ro- 
 mans let it grow ; the Orientals veiled their heads in worship, the 
 Greeks uncovered them ; Christians take off their hats in a 
 church, Mahometans their shoes ; a long veil is a sign of mod- 
 esty 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," an- 
 swered Bateman, "you don't mean to say that there is no natural 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 163 
 
 connection between internal feeling and outward expression, 
 so that one form is no better than another?" " Far 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," said 
 Campbell ; " it is a confusion of different times, ancient and mod- 
 ern." " Or of different ideas," said Charles, "the cassock Cath- 
 olic, the coat Protestant." " The reverse," said Bateraan ; " the 
 cassock is old Hooker's Anglican habit ; the coat comes from. 
 Catholic France." " Any how, it is what Mr. Reding calls a 
 mixture of ideas," said Campbell ; " and that's the difficulty I 
 find in uniting Gothic and Gregorians." " O, pardon me," 
 said Bateman, " they are one idea ; they are both eminently 
 Catholic." " You can't be more Catholic than Rome, I suppose," 
 said Campbell ; " yet there's no Gothic there." " Rome is a 
 peculiar place," said Bateman ; " besides, my dear friend, if we 
 do but consider that Rome has corrupted the pure apostolic doc- 
 trine, can we wonder that it should have a corrupt architecture ?'* 
 " Why, then, go to it for Gregorians ?" said Campbell ; " I sus- 
 pect they are called after Gregory the First, Bishop of Rome, 
 whom Protestants consider the first specimen of Antichrist.'* 
 " It's nothing to us what Protestants think," answered Bateman. 
 " Don't let us quarrel about terms," said Campbell ; " both you 
 and I think that Rome 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 distinction. The 
 Church of Rome has not corrupted the faith, but has admitted 
 corruptions among her people." " It won't do," answered Camp- 
 bell ; " depend on it, we can't stand our ground in controversy, 
 unless we in our hearts think very painfully of the Church of 
 Rome." " Why, what's Rome to us ? " asked Bateman ; " we 
 come from the old British Church ; we don't meddle with Rome, 
 and we wish Rome not to meddle with us, but she will." " Well," 
 said Campbell, " you but read a bit of the history of the Refor- 
 mation, and you will find that the doctrine that the Pope is Anti- 
 christ was the life of the movement. " With Ultra Protestants, 
 not with us," answered Bateman. " Such Ultra Protestants as 
 the writers of the Homilies," said Campbell : " but I say again, 
 I am not contending for names ; I only mean, that as that doc- 
 trine was the life of the Reformation, so a belief, which I have 
 
164 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 and you too, that there is something bad, corrupt, perilous in the 
 Church of Rome, — that there is 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 Rome." " Impossible ! my dear friend," said Bateman ; " all 
 our doctrine has been, that Rome 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 Rome. She is our mother, — O, that word 
 * mother ! ' — a mighty mother ! She opens her arms. 0, 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 Reding," thought Bate- 
 man. * O, my good Campbell," he said, " you are paradoxical 
 to-day." "Not a bit of it," answered Campbell ; " our Reform- 
 ers felt that the only way in which they could break the tie of 
 allegiance which bound us to Rome was the doctrine of her se- 
 rious corruption. And so it is with our divines. If there is one 
 doctrine in which they agree, it is that Rome is Antichrist, or an 
 Antichrist. Depend upon it, that doctrine is necessary for our 
 position." 
 
 " I don't quite understand that language," said Reding ; " I 
 see it is used in various publications. It implies that controversy 
 is a game, and that disputants are not looking out for truth, but 
 for arguments." " You must not mistake me, Mr. Reding," an- 
 swered Campbell ; " all I mean is, that you have no leave to 
 trifle with your conviction that Rome is anti-christian, if you think 
 so. For if it is so, it is necessary to sai/ so. A poet says, 
 ' Speak gently of our sister's /a/Z;' 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, but what you do think, if you do think it." " Here's a 
 doctrine ! " thought Charles ; " why it's putting the controversy 
 into a nutshell." Bateman interposed. " My dear Campbell," 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 165 
 
 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 protests against Rome, 
 either are looking towards her, or have no eyes to see." " All 
 we say," answered Bateman, " is, as I said before, that we don't 
 wish to interfere with Rome ; we don't anathematize Rome — 
 Rome anathematizes 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 back upon their 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. For 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 be 
 honest, and it would not be consistent." 
 
 " Well, he has ended better than he began," thought Bateman : 
 and he chimed in, " O 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 rea'der of the Fathers, 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 Grego- 
 rians 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." " O, really, Bateman," an- 
 swered 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," an- 
 swered Bateman ; " people often think they differ, merely be- 
 cause they have not courage to talk to each other." " A good 
 remark," thought Charles ; " what a pity that Bateman, with 
 
166 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 SO much sense, should have so little common sense ! " " Well, 
 then," said Campbell, "my quarrel with Gothic and Grego- 
 rians, 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 connection," 
 answered Campbell, " between the rise and nature of the basil- 
 ica and of Gregorian unison. Both existed before Christianity; 
 both are of Pagan origin ; both were afterwards consecrated to 
 the service of the Church." " Pardon me," interrupted Bate- 
 man ; " Gregorians were Jewish, not Pagan." " Be it so, for 
 argument's sake," said Campbell ; "still, at least they were not of 
 Christian origin. Next the old music and the old architecture 
 were both inartificial 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 te- 
 dious the old Gregorian compositions were abroad." " I don't 
 explain myself," answered Campbell ; " of course, you may pro- 
 duce them to any length, but merely by addition, not by carry- 
 ing 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 of 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 ; but 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 instru- 
 ment." " Well, I have heard Lindley play all sorts of quick 
 tunes on his bass," said Bateman, " and most wonderful it is." 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 167 
 
 " Wonderful's the right word," answered Reding ; " it is very 
 wonderful. . You say, * How can he manage it ? * and ' It's very 
 wonderful 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 hautboy ; 
 it's forcing the poor thing to do what it was never made for." 
 " This is literally true as regards Gregorian music," said Camp- 
 hell ; " 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 ; " mod- 
 ern music did not come into existence till after the powers of the 
 violin became known. Corelli himself, who wrote not two hun- 
 dred 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 like manner, Gothic ar- 
 chitecture could not exist until vaulting was brought to perfec- 
 tion. Great mechanical inventions have taken place, both in ar- 
 chitecture and in music, since the age of basilicas and Gregori- 
 ans ; 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 Beethoven of not being 
 simple, I have always said, ' Is Gothic architecture simple ? ' A 
 cathedral expresses one idea, but is indefinitely varied and elab- 
 orated in its parts ; so is a symphony or quartet of Beethoven's." 
 
 " Certainly, Bateman, you must tolerate Pagan architecture, 
 or you must in 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 prefer 
 Gothic architecture to classical. I think it the one true 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 
 Gothic an ascendency ; be respectful towards classical." 
 
 The conversation slackened. " Much as I like modern music,** 
 said Charles, " I can't quite go the length to which your doctrine 
 
168 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 ^ 
 
 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 composers," said Campbell ; " figured music may 
 be right, yet Mozart or Beethoven inadmissible. In like man- 
 ner, you don't suppose, because I tolerate Roman architecture, 
 that therefore I like naked cupids to stand for cherubs, and 
 sprawling women for the cardinal virtues." He paused : " Be- 
 sides," 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 sacred 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," answered Campbell ; " it is a 
 mixture of two things, each good in itself, and incongruous to- 
 gether. It's a mixture of the first and second courses at table. 
 It's like the architecture of the fa§ade at Milan, half Gothic, 
 half Grecian." "It's what is always used, I believe," said 
 Charles. " O, yes, we must not go against the age," said Camp- 
 bell : " it would be absurd to do so. I only spoke of what was 
 right and wrong on abstract principles ; and, to tell the truth, I 
 can't help liking the mixture myself, though I can't defend it." 
 
 Bateman rang for tea ; his friends wished toreturn home soon ; 
 it was the month of January, and no season for after-dinner strolls. 
 " Well," he said, " Campbell, 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 cas- 
 sock." " It's no honor 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 transitions," said Campbell ; " do you know that 
 your man Willis — I don't know his college, he turned Roman- 
 ist — is living in my parish, and I have hopes he is making a 
 transition back again." " Have you seen 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." " That is not like a transition, except 
 a physical one," observed Reding. " A person must go some- 
 where," answered Campbell ; " I suppose he went to church up 
 to the week he joined the Romanists." " Very awful, these 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 160 
 
 defections," said Bateman ; "but very satisfactory, a melancholy 
 satisfaction," with a look at Charles, " that the victims of delu- 
 sions 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, unpardonable." 
 " They will keep going one after another, as they ripen," said 
 Campbell. " Did you hear the report — I did not think much 
 of it myself," said Reding — " that Smith was moving ? " " Not 
 impossible," answered Campbell, thoughtfully. " Impossible, 
 quite impossible," cried Bateman ; " such a triumph to the ene- 
 my ; I'll not believe it till I see it." " Not impossible," repeated 
 Campbell, as he buttoned and fitted his greatcoat 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 J and Bateman was soon deserted by his two guests. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Campbell put Charles down about half way between Melford 
 and his home. It was bright moonhght ; 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 
 15 
 
170 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 contiguous 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 neighborhood for its reported miracu- 
 lous virtue. Charles, to his surprise, saw distinctly a man kneel- 
 ing 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 know- 
 ing how to pass ; but the stranger had caught the sound of feet, 
 and in a few seconds vanished from his view. He was overcome 
 with a sudden emotion, which he could not control. " O 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, because I have 
 nothing to trust." He drew near to the Cross, took oflf his hat, 
 knelt down and kissed the wood, and prayed a while, that, what- 
 ever might be the consequences, 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 beheved — to plead for him, and to aid him in his 
 search after the true faith ; but something whispered, " It is 
 wrong ; " and he checked the wish. So, regaining his hat, he 
 passed away, and pursued his homeward path at a brisk pace. 
 
 The family had retired for the night, and he went up without 
 delay to his bed room. Passing through his study, he found a 
 letter lying on his table, without postmark, 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 dress- 
 ing table. " Some well-meaning person, I dare say, who thinks 
 he knows me." He wound up his watch, gave a yawn, and put 
 on his slippers. " Who can there be in this neighborhood to 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 171 
 
 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 ; perhaps it glanced farther. 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 generalization 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 Scripture 
 
 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 indentity 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 Rome 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 ? 
 
 14. Has not the One Church of Christ one faith ? 
 
 15. Can a Church be Christ's which has not one faith ? 
 
 1 6. What is contradictory to itself in its documents ? 
 
 17. And in diffisrent 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 ? 
 
172 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 very sleepy before he reached the "twenty- 
 seventhly." " It won't do," he said ; " I am 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. " Cer- 
 tainly," 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 am 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 supersede its 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. Conviction is the eyesight of the mind, not a conclu- 
 sion from premises ; 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 178 
 
 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 und signed himself with the Cross. His eye caught the let- 
 ter. " It's well written — better than Willis could write ; it's 
 not Willis's. There's something about that Willis I don't un- 
 derstand. I wonder how he and his mother get on together. I 
 don't think he has any sisters." 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Campbell had been much pleased with Charles, and his in- 
 terest 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 acquaintance was formed between the rectory 
 at Sutton and the family at Boughton, which grew into an in- 
 timacy as time went on. Campbell was a gentleman, a travelled 
 man, of clear head and ardent mind, candid, well read in Eng- 
 lish divinity, a devoted Anglican, and the incumbent 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 Camp- 
 bell 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 Bough- 
 ton. 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 entering 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. 
 15* 
 
174 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 It was Willis ; and apparently submitted to the process of re- 
 conversion. Charles was evidently de trop^ but there was no 
 help for it ; so he shook hands with Willis, and accepted the 
 pressing call of Bateman to seat himself at table, and to share 
 their bread and cheese. 
 
 Charles sat down opposite Willis, and for a while could not 
 keep his eyes from him. At first he had some difficulty in be- 
 lieving he had before him the impetuous youth he had known 
 two years and a half before. He had always been silent in gen- 
 eral 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 ap- 
 pearance and manner. He had lost his bloom and youthful- 
 ness ; 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 Devon- 
 shire men." " It's not peculiar to Devonshire," answered Camp- 
 bell ; " that is, they have it abroad. At Rome 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 fan- 
 cied oil was the substitute." " Rome is not so warm as you fan- 
 cy," 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 Rome is excellent, so clear and pale; you can eat it as 
 milk." " The taste, I suppose, is peculiar," observed Charles. 
 "Just at first," answered Campbell; "but one soon gets used to 
 it. All such substances, milk, butter, cheese, oil, have a partic- 
 ular taste at first, which use alone gets over. The rich Guernsey 
 butter is too much for strangers, while Russians relish whale oil. 
 Most of our tastes are in a measure artificial." " It is certainly 
 so with vegetables," said WiUis ; " 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 
 natural, but the only naturally palatable, I suppose, — a crust of 
 bread and a draught from the stream," replied Campbell. " Or 
 the Clerk of Copmanhurst's dry peas," said Charles. "The 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 175 
 
 macaroni and grapes of the Neapolitans are as natural and more 
 palatable," said Willis. " Rather they are a luxury/' said Bate- 
 man. " No," answered Campbell, " not a luxury ; a luxury is 
 in its very idea a something recherche. Thus Horace speaks of 
 the ^ peregrina lagois' What nature yields sponte sua around 
 you, however delicious, is no luxury. Wild ducks are no luxury 
 in your old neighborhood, amid your Oxford fens, Bateman ; 
 nor grapes at Naples." " Then the old women here are luxuri- 
 ous over their sixpenn'rth of tea," said Bateman ; " for it comes 
 from China." Campbell was posed for an instant. Somehow 
 neither he nor Bateman were quite at their ease, whether with 
 themselves- or with each other ; it might be Charles's sudden in- 
 trusion, or something which had happened before it. Campbell 
 answered at length that steamers and railroads were making 
 strange changes ; that time and place were vanishing, 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 dispensations for 
 butcher's meat in Lent, in consequence of the dearness of bread 
 and oil." " This seems to show that the age for abstinences and 
 fastings is past," observed Campbell; "for it's absurd to keep 
 Lent on beef and mutton." " 0, Campbell, what are you say- 
 ing ? " 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 what do you say to Rubrics and the Cal- 
 endar ? " 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 exist- 
 ed two or three hundred years ; when were they ever put in 
 force ? " " But there they are," said Bateman, " in the Prayer 
 
176 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 book." " Yes, and there let them lie, and never get out of it,'* 
 retorted Campbell ; " there thej will stay till the end of story." 
 " O, for shame ! " cried Bateman ; " you should aid your mother 
 in a difficulty, and not be like the priest and 4he Levite." " My 
 mother does not wish to be aided," continued Campbell. " O, 
 how you talk ! What shall I do ? What can be done ? " cried 
 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 re- 
 voke it. " What ! " said Bateman to Campbell, " do you appeal 
 to the Romish Church ? " " No," answered Campbell ; " I appeal 
 to the whole Catholic Church, of which the Church of Rome 
 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 Rome does but give ex- 
 pression to this common-sense view." " Well then," said Bate- 
 man, " I will appeal to the Church of Rome too. Rome is part 
 of the Catholic Church as well as we ; since, then, the Romish 
 Church has ever kept up fastings, the ordinance is not abolished ; 
 the 'greater part' of the CathoHc 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 England and the Church 
 of Rome make one Church ? " " Most certainly," answered 
 Bateman. " Is it possible ? " said WiUis ; " in what sense of the 
 word owe?" " In every sense," answered Bateman, "but that 
 of intercommunion." " That is, I suppose," said Willis, " they 
 are one, except that they have no intercourse with each 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." Bate- 
 man 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 177 
 
 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 on£ visible Church, and therefore 
 the English and Romish ChurchS 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 distin- 
 guish," he said, " the state of the case more exactly. A king- 
 dom may be divided, it may be distracted by parties, by dissen- 
 sions, yet be still a kingdom. That, I conceive, is the real con- 
 dition of the Church; in this way the Churches of England, 
 Kome, 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 ter- 
 ritory between them, then forthwith, 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 between its separate por- 
 tions is so languid, that each separate Pacha may also be termed 
 a separate sovereign ; still it is one kingdom." " The Church, 
 then, at present," said Willis, "is a kingdom tending to dissolu- 
 tion ? " " Certainly it is,", answered Campbell. " And will ulti- 
 mately fail ? " asked Willis. " Certainly," said Campbell; " 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^jtp the view you take of failing. 
 How can any separation be more cong^plete than exists at present 
 between Rome, Greece, and England ? " " They might excom- 
 municate each other," said Campbell. " Then you are willing," 
 said Willis, " to assign beforehand something definite, the occur- 
 rence 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." " No," said Willis ; 
 " you certainly would be in a difficulty ; but you would find your 
 way out, I know. In that case you would choose some other 
 
178 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 idttmahim 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 Prophets 
 describe it. Look at its cathedrals, abbey churches, and other 
 sanctuaries, these fitly typify it." " My dear Bateman," answered 
 Campbell, '• I am as willing as you to maintain the fulfilment of 
 the prophecies 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, appear- 
 ances, manifestations of the Church that are divided. The 
 Church is one as much as ever it was. Just as in the Conse- 
 crated Bread, the material substance is broken, but the Presence 
 of Christ remains one and the same." " That will never do," 
 said Campbell ; and he stood up before the fire in a state of dis- 
 comfort. '• Nature never intended you for a controversialist, my 
 good Bateman," he added to himself. " It is as I thought," said 
 Willis ; '' Bateman, you are describing an invisible Church. 
 You hold the indefectibility of the invisible Church, 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, " Bate- 
 man only means, that one Church presents, in some particular 
 point, a different appearance from another ; but it does not fol- 
 low that, in fact, they have not a visible agreement too. Ail dif- 
 ference implies agreement ; the English and Eoman Churches 
 agree visibly and differ visibly. Think of the difierent 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 difierent is church from church! Our churches are 
 Gothic, the southern churches are Palladian. How different is a 
 basilica from York Cathedral ! 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, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 179 
 
 another calls it pagan." « That / do/' said Bateman. " A 
 little extreme," said Campbell, "a little extreme, as usual. The 
 basihca is beautiful in its place. There are two things which 
 Gothic cannot show — the line or forest of round polished col- 
 umns, and the graceful dome, circHng above one's head like the 
 blue heaven itself." 
 
 All parties were glad of this diversion from the religious dis- 
 pute ; so they continued the hghter conversation which had suc- 
 ceeded it with considerable earnestness. " I fear I must confess," 
 said Willis, " that the churches at Rome 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 theniselves 
 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 flow- 
 ingly : " 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 Protestants, to Rome ; it was so dreary, 
 so melancholy a place ; a number of old, crumbling, shapeless, 
 brick masses, the ground unlevelled, the straight causeways 
 fenced by high monotonous walls, the points of attraction strag- 
 gling over broad solitudes, faded palaces, trees universally pol- 
 larded, streets ankle deep in filth or eyes-and-mouth deep in a 
 cloud of whirling dust and straws, the cHmate most capricious, 
 the evening air most perilous. 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 Cath- 
 olics 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 tan- 
 gible 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 conversation with Mustapha Pacha ; 
 you soon find yourself seated between a Yankee charge d'affaires 
 
180 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 dis- 
 satisfaction since he last spoke, which had not been for quarter 
 of an hour past, did not find himself in spirits to try much to 
 detain 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 too 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 advantage ; 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? O, 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 impression 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 
 positive, so knock-me-down ; it is quite unpleasant, I don't know 
 how to sit it sometimes. O, it is a cruel thing this — the effect 
 must be wretched. Poor Willis ! I declare 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 an 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 181 
 
 end. * * * I knew there was something else. He said we 
 need not fast ! But Cambridge men are always peculiar, they al- 
 ways 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 con- 
 sequences, 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 be- 
 fore the congregation, and was half minded to take his infant to 
 the Methodists for baptism ; and his thoughts took a different 
 direction. 
 
 CHAPTER 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 designs on the latter, but it was an 
 anxious question how best to conduct them. As to Campbell, he 
 was resolved to exclude him from any participation in them ; but 
 he hesitated about Reding. He had found him far less definite- 
 ly Roman than he expected, and he conjectured that, by making 
 him his confidant and employing him against Willis, he really 
 might succeed in giving him an Anglican direction. According- 
 ly, 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 
 Rome without reclaiming him to Anglicanism, the weather 
 having improved, he asked the two to dinner on one of the 
 later Sundays in Lent. He determined to make a field day of 
 it ; and with that view, he carefully 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 " prac- 
 tical evils," as he considered them, of "Romanism;" as being 
 more easy of proof than points of doctrine and history, in which, 
 too, for wliat 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 prac- 
 16 
 
182 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 tical exemplification 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 your- 
 self 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," answered Bate- 
 man, " so that every thing is done consistently 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 medias res ; so he added, — " with which inspired text, 
 I presume, what one sees in foreign churches is not very con- 
 sistent." " 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 Scrip- 
 ture. They are all very right ; but the worship of Saints, espe- 
 cially the Blessed Virgin, and of relics, the gabbling over prayers 
 in an unknown tongue. Indulgences, and infrequent communions, 
 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 t»enjoy, not to quarrel about ; give me a slice 
 more of that leg of mutton." "Yes, Bateman," said Reding, 
 " you must let us enjoy our meat. Willis deserves it, for I be- 
 lieve 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 Bate- 
 man ; " 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 bed room ; he has 
 trudged a pilgrimage to his." " I'm not saying a word against 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 183 
 
 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 observable, 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 humor, perhaps he was too tired to con- 
 tinue it. So they ate and drank, with nothing but very common- 
 place remarks to season their meal withal, till the cloth was re- 
 moved. 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 armis- 
 tice continued a good quarter of an hour, which Charles and 
 Willis spent in easy conversation ; 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 scandalized you." This was 
 almost rudely put : Willis said that, had he been a Protestant, 
 be might have been easily shocked ; but he had been a Catho- 
 lic ; and he drew an almost imperceptible sigh. Besides, had 
 he had a temptation 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 criticize, 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. 
 Faith goes against sight ; well, then, unless there are sights 
 which offend you, there is nothing for it to go against." Bate- 
 man called this a paradox ; if so, he said, why don't we become 
 Mahometans ? we should have enough to believe then. 
 
 "Why, just consider," said Willis ; "supposing your friend, 
 an honorable man, is accused of theft, and appearances 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, 
 
184 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 Catholics 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 ; it can't be otherwise.' This is the way a Protes- 
 tant 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 punish- 
 ment 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 doc- 
 trine 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 Angli- 
 cans, is as utterly unable to realize your position as you are to 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 185 
 
 realize his. He cannot make out how you can be so illogical as 
 not to go forward or backward ; nay, he pronounces your pro- 
 fessed state of mind impossible ; he does not believe in its ex- 
 istence. 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 with- 
 out 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 we can honor our Blessed Lady as the first 
 of creatures, without interfering with the honor due to God. 
 At most, you ought to call us only illogical, you ought not to 
 deny that we do what we say we do." " I make a distinction," 
 said Bateman :• " it is quite possible, I fully grant, for an edu- 
 cated 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 Bateman 
 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 untruths ? " 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 Bateman ; 
 " 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 rehcs ? For 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 ques- 
 tion, 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 improbable; 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, 
 and all that is found there, but one vast heathen relic .^ why 
 16* 
 
186 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 
 nothing 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 beatings about the 
 bush," cried Bateman impatiently; "get on quicker." "Let 
 me go on my own way," said Willis ; " then there is nothing 
 improbable, considering Christians have always been very care- 
 ful 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 
 St. Helena brought from the Holy Land the memorials 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 show- 
 ing a similar devotion, and historical records are less copious ; 
 yet, in spite of this, its existence is as certain as any fact of his- 
 tory. They collected the bones of St. Polycarp, the immediate 
 discij)le of St. John, after he was burned ; as of" St. Ignatius before 
 him, after his exposure to the beasts ; and so in like manner the 
 bones or blood of all the martyrs. No one doubts it ; I never 
 heard of any who 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 after- 
 wards 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 favor. Can you deny it ? Well, if 
 the same relic is reported to be in two places, then one or the 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 187 
 
 other tradition is erroneous, and the prima facte 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, suppose there are circumstances which confirm the one, 
 the other is weakened still further, and at length the probability 
 of its truth may become evanescent ; and when a fair interval 
 has passed, and there is no change of evidence in its favor, then 
 it is at length given up. But all this is a work of time ; mean- 
 while, 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 re- 
 ported 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," 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 
 account 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 behead- 
 ed, it would not be attached to it. This is one question, and 
 others would arise. It is not easy to settle a question of his- 
 tory. Questions which seem settled revive. It is very well 
 for secular historians to give up a tradition or testimony at once, 
 and for a generation to ' O ! O ! ' 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, alter 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 pro- 
 cession 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 be murdered and 
 buried by the Duke of Gloucester. I speak from memory, but 
 the general fact which I am illustrating is undeniable. Usher, 
 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 another pause, while Bateman thought over his 
 facts and arguments, but nothing was forthcoming at the moment. 
 
188 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Willis continued : " You must consider also that reputed relics, 
 such as you have mentioned, are generally in the custody of re- 
 ligious bodies, who are naturally very jealous of attempts to prove 
 them spurious, and with a pardonable esprit de corps^ defend 
 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 w^ould not abandon her ; it would break his mag- 
 nanimous 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 received 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 hun- 
 dred 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 Monu- 
 ment was repaired. That w^as an opportunity for erasing a cal- 
 umny which, till then, had not been definitely pronounced to be 
 such, and not pronounced, in deference to the prima facie au- 
 thority 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 disproved.' When a re(;eived belief 
 has been apparently exposed, the question lies dormant, for the 
 opportunity of fresh arguments ; when none appear, then at length 
 an accident, such as the repair of a building, despatches it." 
 
 "We have somehow got off the subject," thought Bateman; 
 and he sat fidgeting about to find the thread of his argument. 
 Reding 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. " Right," said 
 Bateman, " that's just what I meant to say." " Well," answered 
 Willis, " as to the particular case, mind, I am taking your 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 189 
 
 account of it, for I don't profess to know how the matter lies. 
 Bat 'let us consider the extent of the mistake. 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 sole mistake is, that 
 Catholics have venerated, Avhat 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 WilHs, interrupting him, " and I will 
 help you to some others. I have assumed that there are Chris- 
 tians in the world called Catholics; again, that they think^t 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 returning. Give 
 us some tea, and let us be gone." " 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 impatient to be released. " These 
 
^^^ LOSS AND GAIX. 
 
 Romanists put things so plausibly," he said to himself, "but verr 
 unfairly, most unfairly ; one ought to be up to their dodges. I 
 dare say ,f 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 reflections 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 he has been wofully disap- 
 pointed 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 Redinrr 
 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 Indulgences, 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 com- 
 menced his last assault. 
 
 "Well, Ave 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 iov- 
 ful 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; and then simply an- 
 swered " Grace " Bateman was startled, but recovered him- 
 self ; Heaven forbid," he said, "that I should treat these thino-s 
 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 performed abroad ; how can it 
 be called a ^ reasonable service,' when all parties conspire to bab- 
 ble it over, as if it mattered not a jot who attended to it, or even 
 understood it ? Speak, man, speak," he added, gently shaking 
 him by the shoulder. " These are such difficult questions," an- 
 swered Willis ; "must I speak? Such difficult questions,"- he 
 continued, rising into a more animated manner, and kindlincr as 
 he went on; "I mean, people view them so diff^erently; it ?s so 
 clifheult to convey to one person the idea of another. The idea 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 191 
 
 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 Bateman," 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 your- 
 self 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 behavior with real inward acts of devotion, might em- 
 barrass you, when you had to conform yourself to other habits, 
 and to create for yourself other associations. But this faith, 
 of which I speak, the great gift of God, will enable you in that 
 day to overcome yourself, 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 be- 
 coming under the circumstances, should have need of an expla- 
 nation ! I declare, to me," he said, and he clasped his hands on 
 his knees, and looked forward as if soliloquizing, " to me nothing 
 is so consoling, so piercing, so thrilling, so overcoming, as the 
 Mass, said as it is among us. I could attend masses forever, 
 and not be tired. It is not a mere form of words, — it is a great 
 action, the greatest action that can be 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 aw- 
 ful event which is the end, and is the interpretation, of every 
 part of the solemnity. Words 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 
 
192 LOSS AND GATN. 
 
 lightning whicli 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 a 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 moun- 
 tain, 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 consummation ; — not painfully and hopelessly fol- 
 lowing a hard 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 laborers, and students in seminaries, priests 
 preparing for Mass, priests making their thanksgiving; there are 
 innocent maidens, and there are penitents ; but out of these 
 many minds rises one eucharistic hymn, and the great Action is 
 the measure and the scope of it. And O, my dear Bateman," 
 he added, turning to him, " you ask me whether this is not a for- 
 mal unreasonable service. It is wonderful ! " he cried, rising up, 
 " quite wonderful. When will these dear good people be en- 
 lightened ? Sapientia, fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia^ 
 Adonai, Glavis David et JSxspectatio gentium, veni ad sal- 
 vandum nos, Domine Deus noster."" 
 
 Now, at least, there was no mistaking Wilhs. Bateman stared 
 and was almost frightened at a burst of enthusiasm 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 impetuosity ; 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 193 
 
 low voice, " I would to God, that not only thou, but also all who 
 hear me this day, were both in little and in much such as I am, 
 except 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 splen- 
 did 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 by, what did he mean by ' ex- 
 cept 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 fin 
 ish 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 parlor, and wound like an om- 
 nibus up the steep twisting staircase to his bed room. 
 
 Meanwhile Willis and Charles were proceeding to their respec- 
 tive homes. For 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, dear- 
 est Reding ; O, 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. O, my dear friend, quench not God's grace ; lis- 
 ten 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, 
 17 
 
194 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Avithout 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 before 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 superhu- 
 man power, which seemed able to push through mountains, 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 
 sympathetic 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 ? "0 mighty Mother ! " 
 burst from his lips ; he quickened his pace almost to a trot, scal- 
 ing the steep ascents and diving into the hollows which lay be- 
 tween him and Boughton. " mighty Mother ! " he still said, 
 half unconsciously ; " mighty Mother ! I come, O 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, 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, " O mighty Mother ! " Suddenly he cried, " Halloo ! 
 where did I get these words ? WilHs did not use them. Well, 
 I must be on my guard against these wild ways. Any one can 
 be an enthusiast ; enthusiasm is not truth. * * * Q mighty 
 Mother I * * * Alas, I know where my heart is ! but I must 
 go by reason. * * * Q mighty Mother ! " 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 195 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 The time came at 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 him- 
 self for his examination. No subscription was necessary for his 
 entrance into the schools, but he felt that the honors of the class 
 list were only intended for those who were bona Jide adherents 
 of the Church of England. He laid his difficulty before Carl- 
 ton, who in consequence did his best to ascertain thoroughly his 
 present state of mind. It seemed that Charles had no intention, 
 either now or at any future day, of joining the Church of Rome; 
 that he felt he could not take such a step at present without dis- 
 tinct sin ; that it would simply be against his conscience to do so ; 
 that he had no feeling whatever that God 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 Rome was the One Church of 
 Christ : — that still he could not help suspecting that o"ne day he 
 should think otherwise ; he conceived the day might come, nay 
 would come, when he should have that conviction which at pres- 
 ent 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 Rome ; 
 he could not tell distinctly why he so anticipated, except that 
 there were so many things which he thought right in the Church 
 of Rome, and so many which he thought wrong in the Church 
 of England ; and because, too, the more 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 for 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 foretelling 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 untenable- 
 ness of Anglicanism into conviction. 
 
 Accordingly, his examination came oflT in due time ; the schools 
 
196 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 were full, he did well, and his class was considered to be secure. 
 Sheffield followed soon after, and did brilliantly. The list came 
 out ; Sheffield was in the first class, Charles in the second. 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 rustication 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 honors with the same devotion as Sheffield ; nor had 
 his religious difficulties, particularly his late indecision about pre- 
 senting 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. 
 
 Now came the question about his degree, which could not be 
 taken without subscription to the Articles. Another consulta- 
 tion followed with Carlton. There was no need of his becom- 
 ing 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 antici- 
 pated, 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 difficuUy 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 
 opportunity for parochial duty, which would have a tranquilliz- 
 ing 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 Rome, for 
 which the Anglican Church was famous ; rather those which 
 are of a positive character, which treated subjects philosophi- 
 cally, historically, or doctrinally, and displayed the peculiar prin- 
 ciples of that Church ; Hooker's great work, for instance ; or 
 Bull's Defensio and Harmonia, or Pearson's VindicicBy or Jack 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 197 
 
 son 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 Antiquity, 
 Wall on Infant Baptism, and Palmer on the Liturgy. Nor 
 ought he to neglect practical and devotional authors, as Bishops 
 Taylor, Wilson, and Home. The most important point re- 
 mained; 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 youthful and fragrant beauty which he had 
 admired so much in the beginning of his residence three years 
 before. 
 
 17* 
 
PART III. 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 But now we must look forward, not back. Once before we 
 took leave to pass over nearly two years in the life of the . sub- 
 ject 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 Rec- 
 tory at Sutton. As to Melford, friend Bateman had accepted 
 the incumbency of a church in a manufacturing town with a 
 district of 10,000 souls, where he was full of plans for the in- 
 troduction of the surplice and gilt candlesticks among his peo- 
 ple. Willis also was gone, on a diflferent errand : he had bid 
 adieu to his mother and brother soon after Charles had gone 
 into the 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 
 changing his mind, at least till he has made a trial of the Church 
 of Rome. It is quite possible that experience may drive him 
 back." " It is a dreadful dilemma," she answered ; " how can 
 we even indirectly give him permission 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 
 recommended 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 
 
 (198) 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 199 
 
 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 forever, 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 
 consented 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 leaving 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 realize it. She has neyer spoken to me on the sub- 
 ject. 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 task 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 beforehand." And so 
 it was settled ; and, full of care at the double commission with 
 which he was charged, Campbell 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 beau- 
 tiful landscape, with bold hills in the distance, and a rushing 
 river beneath him. Campbell came up to him without his per- 
 ceiving 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 ? " " You can't expect 
 that I, or any of us, should even indirectly 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 
 
200 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 your 
 sisters. My dear fellow, should you not take all this into ac- 
 count ? Do seriously consider the actual misery you are caus- 
 ing 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 ? O, it has been a most piercing thought ; 
 but I have exhausted it, I have drank it out. I have got fa- 
 miliar with the prospect now, and am fully reconciled. Yes, 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 my- 
 self a byword and an outcast." "O, my dear Charles," an- 
 swered 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 ? Tovr will not deny that I have acted ration- 
 ally, 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 its being a delusion." " Ah, Campbell, how 
 can you forget so ? " answered Charles ; " don't jou know this is 
 the very thing which has influenced me so much all along ? I 
 said, ' Perhaps I am in a dream. O, 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 said to my- 
 self, ' Perhaps these will vanish too.' But no ; ' the clouds re- 
 turn 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 contidence, — lately I have 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. , 201 
 
 been quite afraid to ride, or to bathe, or to do any thing 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 conviction. My belief in the 
 Church of Rome is part of myself ; I cannot act against it with- 
 out 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 confident ; 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 influenced 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. Recollect the words in Thalaba — ' The talisman is 
 faiths If I have good grounds for believing, to believe is a 
 duty ; God will take care of His own work. I shall not be de- 
 serted in my utmost need. Faith ever begins with a venture, 
 and is rewarded with sight." " Yes, my good Charles," an- 
 swered Campbell ; " but the question 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. There- 
 fore, consent ; let me go." " Let you go ! " answered Camp- 
 bell ; " 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 yoursell* into our 
 
202 ^ LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 State of feeling. For myself I cannot deny, I never have con- 
 cealed from you my convictions, that the Romish Church is anti- 
 Christian. She has ten thousand gifts, she is in many respects 
 superior to our own ; but she has a something 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;' Met 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 ; we can't get farther 
 than that. / 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 colored. " I won't go on," added Campbell ; " I pain 
 you ; it's no good ; perhaps I am making matters 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 
 Boon to be united by closer ties. God reward you ; but * let 
 me go, for the day breaketh.' " " It is hopeless," cried Camp- 
 bell ; " 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 portmanteau strapped ; and 
 the gig at the door, which was to take him the first stage. He 
 was to go round by Boughton ; it had been arranged by Camp- 
 bell 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 leaped 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 leav- 
 ing off 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?" Charles an- 
 swered that he had not yet turned his mind to the consideration 
 of any thing but the great step on which every thing else de- 
 pended. There was another silence ; then she said, " You won't 
 find any where such friends as you have had at home, Charles." 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 203 
 
 Presently she continued, " You have had every thing in your fa- 
 vor, Charles ; you have been blessed with talents, advantages of 
 education, easy circumstances ; many a deserving 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 be with you ; y^u 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 do it, 
 I suppose, because you like it." " O, really, my dear mother," 
 cried he, " if you saw my 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 by for the present, my 
 dearest mother. I leave you in good hands, not kinder, but bet- 
 ter 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 impetuously, and rushed out of the 
 room. In a few seconds he had seen and had torn 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 CoUumpton. 
 
204 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 in- 
 distinct notions what was becoming of him even locally, and, like 
 the Patriarch, " went out, not knowing whither he went." He 
 had never 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 Lon- 
 don ; 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 he proposed to betake him- 
 self 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 interposing what they would consider a last chance of avert- 
 ing what to them was so dismal a calamity. 
 
 To Oxford, then, he directed his course ; and having some ac- 
 ci-dental business at Bath, he stopped there for the night, intend- 
 ing to continue his journey next morning. Among other jobs, 
 be 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 in London. He went into a religious pub- 
 lisher'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 inferior 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 ; some- 
 what such as might beset a man on hearing a call for pork 
 chops when he was seasick. He retreated behind a pile of 
 legers and other stationery, but they could not save him from 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 205 
 
 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 ? ' " " 0, not the Adaptations," answered 
 he, "they are 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." " O, 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 recall the name." " You 
 mean Dr. Crow's * New Refutation of Popery,' perhaps ; but the 
 Bishop recommended thatr 
 
 The shopman returned. " O, what a sweet face ! " she said, 
 looking at the frontispice 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 Primrose," 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 nothing 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," con- 
 tinued she ; " O, I know ; its Angelina's aunt. Lady Constance." 
 " Come, Louisa, the horses too will suffer ; we must return to our 
 friends." " O, 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, ' The English Church older than the Roman ? ' 
 or, ' Anglicanism of the Early Martyrs ? ' or, ' Confessions of a 
 Pervert ? ' 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." " 0, I recollect," she said, 
 18 
 
206 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 « 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 carriage. " 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 green- 
 house ; there is no good gardener in our own neighborhood." 
 " What is the good, Louisa, now ? " said her husband ; " we 
 sha'n't be home this month to come ; " and then, with due resig- 
 nation, he directed the coachman to the nurseryman's whom 
 Louisa named, as he put her into the carriage, and then fol- 
 lowed her. 
 
 Charles breathed freely as they went out ; a severe text of 
 Scripture rose on his mind, but he repressed the censorious or un- 
 charitable feeling, and turned himself to the anxious duties which 
 lay before him. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 Nothing happened to Charles worth relating before his ar- 
 rival at Steventon next day ; when, the afternoon being fine, he 
 left his portmanteau to follow him by the omnibus, and put him- 
 self upon the road. If it required some courage to undertake 
 by himself a long journey on an all-momentous errand, it did 
 not lessen the 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 spires and 
 towers of the University came on his view, hallowed by how 
 many tender associations, lost to him for two whole years, sudden- 
 ly recovered — recovered to be lost forever ! 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 gray willows, the far-stretching plains, the dark 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 207 
 
 groves, the distant range of Shotover, the pleasant village where 
 he had lived with Carlton and Sheffield — 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 boy- 
 hood and youth in the choice of his manhood. He mounted the 
 well-known gate on the left, and proceeded down into the plain. 
 There was no one to greet him, to sympathize 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 ten- 
 der towards him, to defend him. He had suffered much, but there 
 was no one to believe that he had suifered. He would be thought 
 to be inflicting merely, 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 observa- 
 tions 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, gaslit, dark-shadowed quadrangles, and won- 
 dering if he should ever be Fellow of this or that College, which 
 he singled out from the mass of academical 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 dis- 
 tance ; he had gained the road before it crossed him ; it was a 
 college tutor whom he had known a little. Charles expected to 
 
208 LOSS AND GATN. 
 
 be recognized ; 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 had passed Folly 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 carrying about CBger dinners ; pastry-cook boys were bring- 
 ing in desserts ; shabby fellows with Blenheim puppies were loi- 
 tering 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 towards 
 the Angel. What was approaching ? the vision of a proctor. 
 Charles felt an instinctive quivering; 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 Lon- 
 don 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 from Com- 
 mon Room. With this intention he salHed 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. For 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 209 
 
 old place goes on," he said to himself, as he took it up. Ho 
 glanced from one article to another, looking who were the Uni- 
 versity preachers of the week, who had taken degrees, who were 
 public examiners, &c., &c.. when his eye was arrested by the fol- 
 lowing paragraph : 
 
 " Defection from the Church. — 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. Savior'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 determin- 
 ing cause of this infatuated act. It is reported that legal meas- 
 ures 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 realized by 
 the Government, to the erection of a ' Martyrs' Memorial ' in 
 the sister University." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 CHAPTER 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 neighboring Common Room. 
 Tea and coffee had made their appearance, the guests had risen 
 from table, and were crowding round the fire. " Who is that Mr. 
 Reding, spoken of in the ' Gazette ' of last week ? " said a prim 
 little man, sipping his tea with his spoon, and rising on his toes 
 as he spoke. " You need not go far for an answer," said his 
 neighbor, and, turning to their host, added, " Carlton, who is Mr. 
 Reding ? " "A very dear honest fellow," answered Carlton ; " I 
 wish we were all of us as good. He read with me one Long Va 
 18* 
 
21-0 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 cation, is a good scholar, and ought to have gained his class. 1 
 have not heard of him for some time." " He has other friends 
 in the room," said another : " I think," turning to a young Fellow 
 of Leicester, '•'•you, Sheffield, were at one time intimate with Re- 
 ding." " 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 met 
 Mr. Malcolm yesterday at dinner, and it seems he knows the 
 family. He said that his religious notions carried Reding away, 
 and spoiled his reading." 
 
 The conversation was not general ; it went on in detached 
 gxoups, as the guests stood together. Nor was the subject a pop- 
 ular one ; rather it was either a painful or a disgusting subject 
 to the whole party, two or three curious and hard minds except- 
 ed, to whom opposition to Catholicism was meat and drink. Be- 
 sides, in such chance collections of men, no one knew exactly his 
 neighbor's opinion about it ; and, as in this instance, there were 
 often friends of the accused or calumniated present. And more- 
 over, 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 neighbor. " A good rid- 
 dance, any how," said the party addressed ; " we shall have a lit- 
 tle peace at last." " Well," said the first of the two, drawing 
 himself up and speaking in the air, " how any educated man 
 should " — his voice was overpowered by the grave enunciation 
 of a small man behind them, who had hitherto kept silence, and 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 211 
 
 now spoke with positireness. He addressed himself, between 
 the two heads which had been just talking in private, to the group 
 beyond them. " It's all the effect of rationalism," he said ; " the 
 whole movement is rationalistic. At the end of three years, all 
 those persons who have now apostatized 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. Reding," 
 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," a^ if it ought to have closed the conversation. It said 
 abruptly, " I respect him uncommonly ; I have an extreme re- 
 spect for him. He's an honest man ; I wish others were as hon- 
 est. If they were, then, as the Pisseyites are becoming Catholics, 
 80 we should see old Brownside and his clique becoming Unita- 
 rians. 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, Shefl&eld, happen to 
 hear that this gentleman, your friend Mr. Reding, 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, 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. Reding for some years." " So it seems," said Shef- 
 field, " for that must have been at least, let me see, five or six 
 years ago." *' O," continued Fu^by, " 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 Ravenswood." Fusby nodded his person, but 
 made no answer. " Not all three at once, I hope," said Sheffield. 
 " O, it's quite a concentration, a quintessence of Protestant feel- 
 ing," answered Vincent ; " I consider myself a good Protestant ; 
 but the pleasure you have in hunting these men is quite sensual, 
 Fusby." The Common Room man here entered, and whispered 
 to Carlton that a stranger was waiting for him in his rooms. 
 
 " When d-o your men come up ? " said Sheffield to Vincent. 
 
212 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 " 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 meeting late, many of our men come from the 
 north and from Ireland." " That's no reason, with railroads." 
 " I see they have begun ours," said Vincent ; " I thought the 
 University had opposed it." " The Pope has given in," said 
 Sheffield, " so we may well do the same." " Don't talk of the 
 Pope," said Vincent, " I'm sick of the Pope." " The Pope ? " 
 said Fusby, overhearing ; " have you heard that his Holiness is 
 coming to England ? " " 0, O," cried Vincent, " come, I can't 
 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 orf 
 the Apostasy, the Catholic Relief Bill, Dr. Pusey's Tract on 
 Baptism, justification, and the appointment of the Taylor Pro- 
 fessors. 
 
 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. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 213 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 " If you have made up your mind, Reding," said Carlton, 
 " it's no good talking. May you be happy wherever you are ! 
 You must always be yourself; as a Romanist, you will still be 
 Charles Reding." "I know I have a kind, sympathizing 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 service 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 outward things cannot change us." Reding sighed ; 
 he saw clearly that his change of religion, when completed, 
 would not fail to have an effect on Carlton's thoughts of 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 impossible, 
 Reding, that now at the eleventh hour we may retain you ? what 
 are your grounds?" "Don't let us argue, dear Carlton," an- 
 swered Reding ; " I have done with argument. Or, if I must 
 say something for manners' sake, I will but tell you that I have 
 fulfilled your request. You bade me read the Anglican divines ; 
 I have given a great deal of time to them, and I am embracing 
 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, consent of Fathers with Beveridge, a 
 visible Church with Brarahall, a tribunal of dogmatic decisions 
 with Bull, the authority of the Pope with Thorndike, penance 
 
214 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 with Taylor, prayers for the dead with Usher, celibacy, asceti- 
 cism, 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 continua- 
 tion 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 ensued, 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 de- 
 termined ; I cannot go back." " Is that a nice feehng ? " said 
 Carlton half reproachfully. "Understand me," answered Re- 
 ding ; " I have come to my resolution with great deliberation. 
 It has remained on my mind as a mere intellectual conclusion 
 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 
 inducements and motives of various kinds. Therefore I say 
 that the time of argument is past ; I act on a conclusion already 
 drawn." " But how do you know," asked Carlton, " but what 
 you have been unconsciously biased in arriving at it ? one no- 
 tion has possessed you, and you have not been able to shake it 
 off. The ability to retain 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 con- 
 viction indeed, to set against the mischief you are doing by a 
 step of this kind. Consider how many persons you are un- 
 settling ; what a triumph you are giving to the enemies of all 
 religion ; what encouragement 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 a move, is the 
 conviction that one's salvation 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 215 
 
 that there is no salvation in our Church ? " said Carlton, 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 people 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 outward call ? " " That seems to 
 me a pretty good intimation," answered Carlton, " that we are 
 to remain where Providence 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. But it's so on so many other 
 subjects ! it's always so. Are members of the Church of Eng- 
 land 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 an- 
 swer; 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 ex- 
 pected 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. TeU 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 find- 
 ing, the labor of seeking, the duty of thirsting after the truth ? 
 I don't believe 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 Scripture only to find proofs for what they were bound to 
 subscribe, as undergraduates getting up the Articles. Then 
 they sit over their wine, and talk about this or that friend who 
 
216 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 has * seceded,' and condemn him, and " (glancing at the news- 
 paper on the table) " assign motives 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 position/ 
 and a pleasant one into the bargain." 
 
 E-eding had got somewhat excited ; the paragraph in the news- 
 paper had annoyed him. But, without taking that into account, 
 there was enough in the circumstances in which he found him- 
 self to throw him out of his ordinary state of mind. He was in 
 a crisis of peculiar trial, which a person must have felt to under- 
 stand. 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 because there are unreasonable, unfeeling per- 
 sons in the Church of England." Charles felt that he was not 
 showing to advantage, and that he was giving rise to the very 
 surmises about the motives of his conversion which he was dep- 
 recating. " It is a sad thing," he said with something of self- 
 reproach, " to spend our last minutes in 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 haven'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 sus- 
 pect, 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 217 
 
 should think of. An English clergyman is a gentleman ; you 
 may have more to bear than you reckon for, when you find your- 
 self with men of rude minds and vulgar manners." " My dear 
 Carlton, aren'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 nothing 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 out- 
 side. What offends me in Cathohc public proceedings need be 
 no measure, nay, I believe cannot be a measure, of the inward 
 Catholic mind. I would not judge the Anglican Church by Ex- 
 eter 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. " O, 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, fol- 
 19 
 
218 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 lowing my own will * * * well * * * " and he began 
 looking at his fingers and slowly rubbing his palms one on another. 
 " It must be," he whispered to himself, " through tribulation to 
 the kingdom, sowing in tears, reaping in joy * * * " An- 
 other pause, and a new train of thought came over him ; " O," 
 he said, " I fear so very much, so very much, that all you who 
 do not come forward will go back. You 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. 
 Tliey call us Rationalists ; 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 by. 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. 
 
 Charles 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 of year, 
 with a thousand hues, arching over his head,- and screening his 
 side. He reached Addison's Walk ; 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. He reentered the monastic buildings, meet- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 2l9 
 
 ing 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 Cher- 
 well with the Isis ; he then turned back. 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 Undine," he said, "killing with a kiss. 
 No one cares 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. He 
 always had felt kindly towards him, in spite of his sternness, 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 whole had as 
 good success as Carlton in the " keen encounter of their wits '* 
 the night before, it had left an unsatisfactory 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 apprehension of the truth. He began to ques- 
 tion whether he 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 
 recall 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, where 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, 
 
220 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 all his so called convictions were to vanish just as he entered the 
 Roman pale, as thej 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 over- 
 powered. 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 deliberate 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 farther compartment 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 th9,t worn or rather that un placid 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 for- 
 eign character, and, taken together with the small office book he 
 held in his hand, plainly showed Charles that he was opposite a 
 Roman 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 journeyed on some time in si- 
 lence, longing yet afraid to speak. At length, on the train stop- 
 ping at the station, he addressed a few words to him in French. 
 His companion looked surprised, smiled, and in a hesitating 
 saddish voice said that he was an Englishman. Charles made 
 an awkward apology, and there was silence again. Their eyes 
 sometimes met, and then moved slowly off each other, as if a mu- 
 tual reconnoitring was in progress. 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 221 
 
 said, "Perhaps I can read you, sir, better than you can me. 
 You are an Oxford man by your appearance." Charles as- 
 sented. "A bachelor?" He was of near Master's standing. 
 His companion, who did not seem in a humor for talking, pro- 
 ceeded to various questions about the University, as if out of 
 civility. What colleges sent Proctors that year ? Were the Tay- 
 lor Professors appointed ? Were they members of the Church 
 of England ? Did the new Bishop of 'Bury keep his headship ? 
 &c. 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 leaned back in his seat. His fellow-traveller 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 apparently finished ; the book vanished in a 
 side pocket. 
 
 After a time Charles suddenly said, " How came you to sup- 
 pose I was of Oxford ? " " Not entirely by your look and man- 
 ner, 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." "Not 
 only Oxford men, but Cambridge men, are known by their ap- 
 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 concentrated 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 fii*st 
 
 19* 
 
222 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 sight," he said, " how it was rational to maintain that so much de- 
 pended 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 mes- 
 sage, or really we believed no part of it ; that we ought to be- 
 lieve what the Cliurch proposed to us on the loordo^ the Church." 
 "Yet surely the so called Evangelical believes more than the 
 Unitarian, and the High Churchman than the Evangelical," ob- 
 jected Ciiarles. *' 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," 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 ? " " Because it is plain," said 
 Charles, " that his ultimate standard of truth is not the Scrip- 
 ture, 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 work 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 truth ;' or, ' whosesoever sins ye forgive,*' 
 they are forgiven ; ' or, ' 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 Scripture is a part." His companion smiled ; " How 
 many," he asked, " so profess ? But, waving this question, I un- 
 derstand 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 exercise their belief? Is it not an undeniable fact, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 223 
 
 that, so far from all Anglican clergyman 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 necessa- 
 rily does, though he would not, choose between them. How, 
 then, has faith a place in the religion 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, — w^ho, 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 color their whole being with its in- 
 fluence, and rules their heart and conduct as well as their im- 
 agination. I can't believe that these persons are out of God's 
 favor ; yet, according to your account of the matter, they have 
 not faith." " Do you think these persons believe and prac- 
 tise all that is brought home to them as being in Scripture ? '* 
 asked his companion. " Certainly they do," answered Charles, 
 "as far as men can judge." "Then perhaps they may be practis- 
 ing 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 consciences, — just as a Pope's Bull may be for a 
 time unknown in a distant part of the Church. They may be 
 in involuntary ignorance.* Yet 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 over-pleased ; " Surely," he said, " in matter 
 of fact, a man may have more evidence for believing the Church 
 to be the messenger of God, than he has for believing the four 
 
 * " Errantes invincibiliter circa aliquos articulos, et credentes alios, non sunt 
 formaliter hseretici, sed habent fidem supernaturalem, qua credunt veras arti- 
 culos, atque adeo ex ea possunt procedere actus perfectae contritionis, quibus 
 justificentur et salventur." — De Lugo de Fid., p. 169. 
 
224 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Gospels to be from God. If, then, lie 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 
 tlie 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 barba- 
 rous nations." " The converts of the Roman empire were, I 
 suppose, a considerable 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 au- 
 thor laments over the madness of men's destroying what they 
 could not replace, what it would take centuries and a combina- 
 tion of fortunate circumstances to reproduce, an external re- 
 ceived creed. I am not denying, God forbid ! the objectivity of 
 revelation, or saying that faith is a sort of happy and expedient 
 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 civilized community, where reason has been cultivated to 
 the utmost, and argument is the test of truth. Many a man will 
 say, ' 0, 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 uneasiness ; when Charles stopped, he said shortly, 
 but quietly, " What is to make him believe ! the will, his will" 
 Charles hesitated ; he proceeded ; " If there is evidence 
 enough to believe Scripture, and we see that there is, I repeat, 
 there is more than enough to believe the Church. The evi- 
 dence 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 gen- 
 eral feeling among educated Anglicans, that the claims of the 
 Roman Church do not rest on a sufficiently intellectual basis ; 
 I 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 conviction that the Catholic or Roman Church, 
 and none other, is the voice of God." " Do you mean," said 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 225 
 
 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; "but at least he 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 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 temptation 
 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 arguments on both sides. 
 " It is not one set of men," answered 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 appreciation of the sympathy which 
 it show^s towards sinners ; not an admiration of the Martyrs and 
 early Fathers, and a delight in their writings. Individuals may 
 display a touching gentleness, or conscientiousness which de- 
 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 do nothing in rehgious matters, till they 
 begin by an act of unreserved faith in the word of God, what- 
 ever 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 incom- 
 plete. And when they shall recognize this defect in themselves, 
 and try to remedy it, then they will recognize much more, they 
 will be on the road very shortly to be Catholics." 
 
226 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 Lon- 
 don, which, after what Charles had already been saying, could 
 be no great surprise 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 Pad- 
 dington ; 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 carriage, and was walking out 
 of sight at a brisk pace. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Reding naturally wished to take the important step he was 
 meditating as quietlji as he could ; and had taken what he con- 
 sidered satisfactory measures for this purpose. But such ar- 
 rangements often turn out very differently from their promise ; 
 and so it was in his case. 
 
 The Passionist House was in the eastern part of London ; so 
 far well ; — and as he knew in the neighborhood a respectable 
 publisher in the religious line, with whom his father had 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 him- 
 self 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 deportment of 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 227 
 
 his host grounds for concluding tliat his coming was not only ex- 
 pected, 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 possible 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 devotional ex- 
 ercises, 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. Reding 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 re- 
 quest ; and in the course of a few minutes their knock was heard 
 at the room door. 
 
 On his answering it, two persons presented themselves, ap- 
 parently 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 ap- 
 pearance. The younger of the two, who had round full cheeks, 
 with a nose turned up towards the right eye, and a shrill voice, 
 advanced confidently, and seemed to expect a recognition. It 
 broke 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 recol- 
 
228 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 lect me at College." ''Ah, I remember perfectly," said Reding; 
 " Jack the kitchen boy at St. Savior'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, "/ have got 
 promotion now." " So it seems. Jack," answered Reding ; " but 
 what are you ? Speak." " Ah, sir," said Jack, " we must con- 
 verse in a tone of befitting seriousness ; " and 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 ? O, 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 ? " "I am," answered Jack, as if 
 he were confessing at the tribunal of a Proprietor, " 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. Reding, sir," 
 answered Jack, waving his hand ; " hear me, but strike ; I 
 repeat, I am a member of the Holy Catholic Church, assem- 
 bling in Huggermugger Lane." " Ah," said Charles, " I see ; 
 that's what the ' gods ' call you ; now, what do men ? " " Men," 
 said Jack, not understanding, however, the allusion — " men call 
 us Christians, professing the opinions of the late Rev. Edward 
 Irving, B. D." " I understand perfectly now," said Reding ; 
 " Irvingites — I recollect " — " No, sir," he said, " not Irving- 
 ites ; we do not follow man ; we follow wherever the Spirit leads 
 us ; we have given up Tongue. But I ought tp introduce you 
 to my friend, who is more than an Angel," he proceeded mod- 
 estly, " who has more than the tongue of men and angels, being 
 nothing short of an Apostle, sir. Mr. Reding, here's the Rev. 
 Alexander Hightly. 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 this pro- 
 fession. He explained that he had heard of Mr. Reding's being 
 unsettled in his religious views, and he would not lose the oppor- 
 tunity of attempting so valuable an accession to the cause to 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 229 
 
 which he had dedicated himself. " I see," said Charles, smiling, 
 " I am in the market." " It is the bargain of Glaucus with Dio- 
 mede," answered Mr. Highfly ; " for which I am asking your 
 cooperation. 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 acknowledge the orders of the 
 Church of England. We are but completing the Church sys- 
 tem by restoring the Apostolic College." " Whart I should com- 
 plain of," said Charles, " were I at all inclined to listen to your 
 claims, would be the very different views which different mem- 
 bers of your body put forward." " You must recollect, sir," an- 
 swered Mr. Highfly, " that we are under divine teaching, 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 Reding, " 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 Gentile Apostolate. The Church of England has 
 Bishops, Priests, and Deacons, but a Scriptural Church has more ; 
 it is plain it ought to have Apostles. In Scripture, Apostles had 
 the supreme authority, 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 cooperation in doing so ? 
 We do not ask you to secede from the Establishment, but to ac- 
 knowledge the Apostolic authority, to which all ought to submit." 
 " But does it not strike you, Mr. Highfly," answered Reding, 
 " that there is a body of Christians, and not an inconsiderable 
 one, which maintains with you, and, what is more, has always 
 preserved, that true and higher Apostolic succession in the Church ; 
 a body, I mean, which, in addition to Episcopacy, believes that 
 there is a standing 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 dor- 
 mant 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 
 20 
 
230 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 the Apostles were Jews ; but there never has been a Gentile 
 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 was, besides his own, which Mr. 
 Reding considered to have preserved the succession of Apostles, 
 as something dMinct from Bishops. "It is quite plain whom I 
 mean — the Catholics," answered 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 Apostolate in the Church. You consider that the authority 
 of the Apostles was not temporary, but essential and fundamental. 
 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 eare 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 sole proper suc- 
 cessor, of the Apostles, though Bishops may be improperly such 
 also.* And hence Catholics call him Vicar of Christ, Bishop 
 of Bishops, and the like ; and, I believe, consider that he, in a 
 preeminent sense, is the one pastor or ruler of the Church, the 
 source of jurisdiction, the judge of controversies, and the centre 
 of unity — as having the powers of the Apostles, and specially 
 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 
 
 * " Successores sunt, sed ita ut potius Vicarii dicendi sint Apostolorum, 
 quam successores ; contra, Romanus Pontifex, quia verus Petri successor 
 est, nonnisi per quendara ahusum ejus vicarius diceretur." — Zaccar. AiUifebr 
 p. 130. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 231 
 
 least, you would urge your doctrine upon me with more authority 
 if you came as a member 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 diflTerent line. " Well, sir," he said, " I 
 do not see that any good will come by our continuing the inter- 
 view ; 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 cooperation. We do not 
 controvert ; we only wish to deliver our testimony, and then to 
 leave the matter. I believe, then, we need not take up your val- 
 uable time longer." With that he got up, and eJack with him, 
 and, with many courteous bows and smiles, which were duly re- 
 sponded to by Reding, the two visitors took their departure. 
 
 " Well, I might have been worse otif," thought Reding ; " really 
 they are gentle, well-mannered animals, after all. I might have 
 been attacked with 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 cir- 
 cumference with the handle. At length she asked, without rais- 
 ing her eyes, whether it was true, — and she spoke slowly, and 
 in what is called a spiritual tone, — whether it was true, the in- 
 formation had been given her, that Mr. Reding, the gentleman 
 she had the honor 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 an- 
 swered 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 organizing a new religious body, and Mr. 
 
232 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 Reding's accession, counsel, assistance, would be particularly val- 
 uable ; 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 persuasion ? " ." The name," she an- 
 swered, " 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 an- 
 swer to so Uberal an offer. She continued : " Perhaps it is right, 
 Mr. Reding, that I should tell you something more about myself 
 personally. I vvas born in the communion of the Church of Eng- 
 land ; for a while I was a member of the New Connection ; and at 
 present," she added, still with drooping head and languid singsong 
 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 conversation ; so 
 she said presently, " We are all for a pure religion." " From 
 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 include 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 ? " 
 Charles tried to cut short the interview by denying that he had 
 any religion to seek after, or any decision to make ; but it was 
 easier to end the conversation than the visit. He threw himself 
 back in his chair in despair, and half closed his eyes. " O, 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 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 233 
 
 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 wo- 
 man, Mr. Reding, 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 Reding'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 intolerable," he said to 
 himself; and jumping up, he cried, " Sir, excuse me, I am par- 
 ticularly engaged this morning, and I must beg to decline the favor 
 of your visit." " What did you say, sir ? " said the stranger ; 
 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, saying 
 half aloud, as he wrote, " declines the favor of my visit." Then 
 he looked up again, keeping his pencil 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 
 honor of your call ; but another day, sir, another day. It is too 
 much, too much." " Too much ? " said the intruder ; " and I 
 waiting 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 discussions," said the stranger to himself, as he wrote 
 down the words in his note book. Charles did not deign to no- 
 tice his act or to explain his own expression ; he stood prepared 
 to renew his action of motioning him to the door. His torment- 
 or then said, " You may like to know my name ; it is Zerub- 
 babel." 
 
 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 
 
 upon himself to reply, " Zerubbabel ; indeed ; and is Zerubbabel 
 
 your Christian name, sir, or your surname ? " " It is both at 
 
 20* 
 
234 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 hkely to become 
 a Jew." " Stranger things have happened," answered his visitor ; 
 " for instance, I myself was once a deacon in the Church of Eng- 
 land." " 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 consider 
 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," replied Zerubbabel ; " see what the Establishment 
 is doing ; it has sent a Bishop to Jerusalem." " That is rather 
 with a view of making the Jews Christians, than the Christians 
 Jews," said Reding. 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 distinction 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 call- 
 ing 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 usurpation 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 Temple 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 Re- 
 ding, " to attempt rebuilding the Temple. According to you. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 235 
 
 Julian the Apostate went the better way to work." " His mo- 
 tive 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 great discoveries of this age. We must make the 
 first step towards tltem. 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 sacrifices 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 offhand manner, 
 " May I not hope you will give your name to this religious ob- 
 ject, and adopt the old ritual ? The Catholic is quite of yester- 
 day compared with it." Charles answering in the negative, Ze- 
 rubbabel 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. 
 
 Charles's trials were not at an end ; and we suspect the 
 reader will give a shudder at the news, as having a very mate- 
 rial share in the infliction. Yet the reader's case has this great 
 alleviation, that he takes up this narrative 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 Zerubbabel, 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 sometimes dealt with him, and who had come 
 from the West End for the honor of an interview Avith Mr. 
 Reding. Charles groaned, but only one reply was possible ; the 
 day was already wasted ; and with a sort of dull resignation 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 with- 
 
236 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 out intellect, who knew no better than to obtrude their fanati- 
 cism on persons who did but despise it. " I know more about 
 the Universities," he continued, " than to suppose that any con- 
 geniality can exist between their members and the mass of reli- 
 gious sectarians. You have had very distinguished 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 contradictory 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 distin 
 guished Confessors in that all-momentous occupation; and I have 
 thought I could not pay yourself individually, whose name has 
 lately honorably 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 en- 
 graving, part print, part manuscript. 4-" 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, sur- 
 rounded, 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 Association 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 unanimously 
 elected him into their number, and had assigned him the digni- 
 fied and responsible office of associate and corresponding mem- 
 ber. "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 respect his love of Truth, I 
 presume," said Mr. Batts. " Not much, I fear," said Charles, 
 " seeing it did not hinder him from deliberately embracing er- 
 ror." " No, not so," answered Mr. Batts ; " from embracing what 
 he thought Truth ; and Julian, I conceive, cannot be said to have 
 deserted the Truth, bqcause, in fact, he always was in pursuit of 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 237 
 
 it." " I fear," said Reding, " there is a very serious difference 
 between your principles and my own on this point." " Ah, 
 my dear sir, a little attention to our principles will remove 
 it," said Mr. Batts : " let me beg your acceptance of this lit- 
 tle 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 consist 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 possession, of Truth. 
 
 8. As Catholicism begins with faith, so Protestantism ends 
 
 with inquiry. 
 
 9. As there is disinterestedness in seeking, so is there self- 
 
 ishness in claiming to possess. 
 
 10. The martyr of Truth is he who dies professing that it is 
 
 a shadow. 
 
 11. A lifelong martyrdom is this, to be ever changing. 
 
 12. The fear of error is the bane of inquiry." 
 
 Charles did not get farther than these, but others followed of 
 a similar character. He returned the pamphlet to Mr. Batts. 
 " I see enough," he said, " of the 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 imprudent, I conceive, in this age, to repre- 
 sent 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 
 
238 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 Christianity has nothing to do with astronomy or geology : 
 why, then, should it be allowed to interfere with philosophy ? " 
 It was useless proceeding in the discussion ; Charles repressed 
 the answer which rose on his tongue, of the essential connection 
 of philosophy with religion ; a silence ensued of several minutes, 
 and Mr. Batts at length took the hint, for he rose with a disap- 
 pointed 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 undertake them. On Mr. Batts's departure, 
 then, he did not make the attempt, but sat before the fire, dull 
 and depressed, and in danger of relapsing into the troubled 
 thoughts from which his railroad companion had extricated him. 
 When, then, at the end of half an hour, a new knock was heard 
 at the door, he admitted the postulant 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 profited by them. 
 His glossy black dress, in contrast with the pink color 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 offering to you a little good advice. 
 You may guess what I am by my appearance : I spealt for my- 
 self ; I will say no more ; I can be of use to you. Mr. Reding," 
 he continued, 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 difficulties ? " " You have not yet 
 heard from me, sir," answered 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, 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 239 
 
 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 carry 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 doorsteps scrubbed. Why become a 
 convert to Popery, when you can obtain your object in a cheaper 
 and better way? Set up for yourself, ray dear sir — set up for 
 yourself; form a new denomination, sixpence will do it ; and 
 then you may have your surplice and candlesticks to your heart's 
 content, without denying the gospel, or running into the horrible 
 abominations of the Scarlet Woman." And he sat upright in 
 his chair, with his hands fiat 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, in- 
 deed, are but one of a number, sir, and would say you had 
 nothing to do with the rest ; but I cannot help regarding you as 
 the fifth, or sixth, or seventh person — I can't count them — • 
 who has been with me 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 
 personal matters with strangers. Let me, then, thank you first 
 for your kindness in coming, and next for the additional kind- 
 ness of going." And Charles rose up. 
 
 His visitor did not seem inclined to move, or to notice what he 
 had said. He stopped a while, opened his handkerchief 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 unknown to me ; you are at present under 
 the influence of the old Adam, and indeed in a melancholy way. 
 I was not unprepared for it ; and I have put in my pocket a lit- 
 tle 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 con- 
 vert you in twenty-four hours. Its operation is mild and pleas- 
 urable, and its effects are marvellous, prodigious, though it 
 
240 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 does not consist of more than eight duodecimo 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 operations 
 took place in as few as three ; and twenty-seven where conver- 
 sion 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. Reding, 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 ex- 
 ceptio prohat regulam, for on further inquiry we found he could 
 not read. So the tract w^as slowly administered to him by 
 another person ; and before it was finished, I protest to you, 
 Mr. Reding, he fell into a deep and healthy slumber, perspired 
 profusely, and woke up at the end of twelve hours a new crea- 
 ture, perfectly new, bran new, and fit for Heaven, whither he 
 went in the course of the week. We are now making further 
 experiments 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 conde- 
 scend to any further parleying. Dr. Kitchens proceeded : " Have 
 you attended any of the lectures delivered against the Mystic 
 Babylon, or any of the public disputes which have been carried 
 on in so many places ? My dear friend, Mr. Makanoise, 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 run- 
 ning without fatigue ; and last year he went through England, 
 delivering through the length and breadth of the land, one, and 
 one only, awful protest against the apocalyptic witch of Endor. 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 211 
 
 fie bciian at Devonport and ended at Berwick, and surpassed 
 himself on every delivery. At Berwick, his last exhibition, the 
 etfect was perfectly tremendous ; a friend of mine heard it ; he 
 assures me, incredible as it may appear, that it shattered somo 
 glass in a neighboring 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 one forthwith 
 took to his bed, and the other has walked on crutches ever 
 since." He stopped a while, then he continued : " And what 
 was it, do you think, Mr. Reding, which had this effect on them ? 
 Why, it was Mr. Gabb's notion about the sign of the beast in 
 the Revelation ; 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. " 0," he said suddenly, " then 
 I suppose. Dr. Kitchens, you can't tolerate the cross ? " " 0, 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 retreated. " 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 it to Dr. Kitchens, 
 while he kept 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. 0, ! Spare me, spare me, Mr. Reding! — nehushtan 
 — an idol ! — O, you young antichrist, you devil ! — 'tis He, 'tis 
 He — torment ! — spare me, Mr. Reding." And the miserable 
 man began to dance about, still eying the sacred sign, and mo- 
 tioning it from him. Charles now had victory in his hands : 
 tliere w^as, indeed, some difficulty in steering Dr. Kitchens to 
 the door from the place where he had been sitting ; but, that 
 once effected, he opened it with violence, and throwing himself 
 on the staircase, he began to jump down two or three steps at a 
 21 
 
242 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 
 
 Charles threw himself on his chair, burying the Crucifix in 
 his bosom, quite worn out with his long trial and the sudden ex- 
 ertion in which it had just now been issuing. "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 per- 
 son 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, and Jewish 
 Apostles, and Gentile Apostles, and free inquiry, and fancy re- 
 ligion, 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 possi- 
 ble ! " His countenance changed to extreme surprise ; it was 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 2i3 
 
 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 ad- 
 vantage of the stores of Charles's landlord in adding to his libra- 
 ry. Passing through London to the Eastern Counties rail, he 
 happened to call in ; and as the worthy bookseller w^as not 
 behind his own reading room in the diffusion of gossip, he 
 learned that Mr. Reding, who was on the point of seceding from 
 the Estabhshment, 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 holding 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 judgment. His feeling was a mixture of pre- 
 scriptive fear and friendliness, attachment from old associations, 
 and desire of standing well with him, but neither confidence nor 
 real love. He colored 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 * * * lie bungled, 
 and could not finish his sentence. " A friend, who, of course, 
 could give no advice," said Mr. Malcolm, dryly. 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 had just come down, 
 nearly threw me over the baluster." " O no, sir, I know noth- 
 ing of them ; they were the most unwelcome of intruders." 
 " As some one else seems to be/' said Mr. Malcolm. Charles 
 
244 ' LOSS AXD GAIN. 
 
 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. These Jesuits, perhaps. * * * It 
 was not so in your flither'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 situation. 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 re- 
 ligion for a gentleman ; he is introduced to a Count this, and a 
 Marchioness that, and returns a Catholic. There was another ; 
 what was his name ? I forget it, of a Berkshire family. He is 
 smitten with a pretty 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 favor 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 possible and the true. " I know them," he 
 continued — "I know them ; a set of hypocrites and sharpers. 
 I could 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 morality ? I warrant it, not much." Charles 
 looked very uncomfortable. " Then what makes you go to 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 245 
 
 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 a bird to the fowler." 
 
 Reding began to rouse himself ; he felt he ought to say some- 
 thing ; 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, consult 
 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 you youngsters," 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 certainty. We shall see you back, 
 foolish boy, after you have had your gallop over your ploughed 
 field. Well, 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 edu- 
 cation 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 by, Charles ; you are high and mighty now, and are in 
 full sail : you may come to your father's friend some day in a 
 diflferent temper. Good by." 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 ac- 
 company him down to the street door. 
 21* 
 
246 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 before he arrived at the 
 Convent. It was a plain brick building ; 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, — ahars indeed had been set up, but, for the rest, it had 
 little more than good proportions, a broad sangtuary, a service- 
 able organ, and an effective choir. There was a range of build- 
 ings adjacent, capable of holding about half a dozen fathers; but 
 the size of the church required a larger establishment. By this 
 time, doubtless, things are very different, but we are looking 
 back at the first efforts of the English Congregation, when it 
 bad 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 England. Two cen- 
 turies after the memorable era when St. Philip and St. Ignatius, 
 making light of those bodily austerities of which they were per- 
 sonally so great masters, preached mortification of will and reason 
 as more necessary for a civilized age, — in the lukewarm and 
 self-indulgent eighteenth century. Father 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 Founder, on the Celian Hill, hangs an iron 
 discipline or scourge, studded with nails, which is a memorial, 
 not only of his own self-inflicted sufferings, but of those of his 
 
LOSS AND GAIX. 247 
 
 Italian farnilj. Their object was as remarkable as their inten- 
 sity ; penance, indeed, is in one respect the end of all self- 
 chastisement, but in the instance of the Passionists the use of 
 the scourge is specially directed to the benefit of their neighbor. 
 They apply the pain to the benefit of the holy souls in Purga- 
 tory, or they undergo it to rouse a careless audience. On their 
 missions, when their words seem uttered in vain, they have 
 been known suddenly to undo their habit, and to scourge them- 
 selves 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 addressing took pity on their own perishing 
 souls. Nor was it to their own countrymen alone that this self- 
 consuming charity extended ; how it so happened does not ap- 
 pear ; 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 pontificate, 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 his last 
 years, after a vision during mass, as if he had been Augustine 
 or MeUitus, he talked of his " sons " in England. 
 
 It was strange enough that even one Italian in the heart of 
 Rome should at that time have ambitious thoughts of making 
 novices or converts in this country ; but, after the venerable 
 Founder's death, his special interest in our distant isle showed 
 itself in another of the same Religion. On the Apennines, near 
 Viterbo, there dwelt a shepherd boy in the first years of this 
 century, whose mind had early been dr^wn 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 un- 
 der 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, 
 
248 LOSS AXI) GAIN. 
 
 then a Father, in the Congregation of the Passion. Yet, though 
 no external means appeared, the inward impression did not fade ; 
 on 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. How- 
 ever, it was as hkely 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 deter- 
 mination of his own, but by the same Providence which thirty 
 years before had given him the anticipation of it. ' 
 
 At the time of our narrative, Father Domenico de 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 passed after year, and, whether fear of the severity of the 
 i^ule — 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 despond. 
 But every work has its season ; andiiow for some time past that 
 difficulty had been gradually lessening; various zealous men, 
 some of noble birth, others of extensive acquirements, had en- 
 tered the Congregation ; and our friend Willis, who at this time 
 had received 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, ignorant what it meant, and awkward from 
 his consciousness of it, did nothing but shnk aside, and look for 
 some place of refuge ; ^ut the whole space was open, and there 
 seemed no corner to retreat into. Every one, "however, 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 Avere lighting at the High Altar, 
 which stood in the centre of a semicircular apse. There were 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. 249 
 
 side altars — perhaps half a dozen; most of them without lights, 
 but, even here, solitary worshippers might be seen. Over one 
 was a large old Crucitix with a lamp, and this had a successioa 
 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 farther 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 monotonous ; and, as it seemed interminable. Reding turned 
 his eyes elsewhere. They fell first on one, then on another con- 
 fessional, round each of which was a little crowd, kneeling, wait- 
 ing every one his own turn for presenting himself for the sacra- 
 ment — the men on the cTne side, the women on the other. At 
 the lower end of the church were about three ranges of movable 
 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-dressed youths, Irish laborers, 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, when 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 representati\e, here it was just reversed. The priest 
 hardly spoke, or at least audibly ; but the whole congregation 
 was as though one vast instrument or Fanharmonicon, moving 
 
250 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 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 Savior, and the great Mother of God, 
 and the glorified Saints, with hearts full in proportion to the en- 
 ergy 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 manifested 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 and old, polished and vulgar, men and women indiscrim- 
 inately ; 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 
 Sacrament — it was the Lord Licarnate 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 different from every 
 other place in the world ; which makes it as no other place can 
 be, holy. The Breviary offices were by this time not 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 : 
 "O Adonai, et Dux domus Israel, qui Moysi in rubo apparuisti; 
 O Emmanuel, Exspectatio Gentium et Salvator earum, 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 mo- 
 
LOSS AND GAIN. ^5l 
 
 ment, 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 jet familiar manner. Charles's 
 feelings were indescribable, but all pleasurable. His heart beat, 
 not with fear or anxiety, but from the thrill of delight with which 
 he realized that he was beneath the shadow of a Catholic com- 
 munity, 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 w^ith 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 sacramatit of confirmation. Kot much time was neces- 
 sary 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. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 A VERY 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 of the Catholic Church about 
 an hour since. He was still kneeling in the church of the Pas- 
 sionists 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 which had long been tolling stops, or when a 
 vessel, after much tossing at sea, finds itself in harbor. It was 
 
252 LOSS AND GAIN. 
 
 such as to throw him back in ntemorj 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 Cathedrce Petri. He went 
 on kneehng, 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 farewell to you before 
 I go." He looked around ; it was Willis, or rather Father Aloy- 
 sius, 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 said, 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." " 0," said Charles, " what shall I say ? — the Face 
 of God ! As I knelt, I seemed (o 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 familiarity." " No, Willis," he 
 made answer, " you have taken the better part betimes, while I 
 have loitered. Too late have I known Thee, O 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? 
 A good God overrules all things. But I must away. Do you 
 recollect ray last words when we parted in Devonshire ? 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.' " Reding 
 took Father Aloysius' 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 Prcri-'^nt, that 
 he had no thou^ts either for the Past or the Future. 
 
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