The time came at length for Charles to return to Oxford; but during the
last month scruples had arisen in his mind, whether, with his present
feelings, he could consistently even present himself for his
examination. No subscription was necessary for his entrance into the
schools, but he felt that the honours of the class-list were only
intended for those who were _bonâ fide_ adherents of the Church of
England. He laid his difficulty before Carlton, 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 distinct 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 one day he should think otherwise; he
conceived the day might come, nay would come, when he should have that
conviction which at present he had not, and which of course would be a
call on him to act upon it, by leaving the Church of England for that of
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 untenableness of Anglicanism into
conviction.
Accordingly, his examination came off in due time; the schools 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 honours with the same devotion as Sheffield; nor had
his religious difficulties, particularly his late indecision about
presenting himself at all, been without their serious influence upon his
attention and his energy. As success had not been the first desire of
his soul, so failure was not his greatest misery. He would have much
preferred success; but in a day or two he found he could well endure the
want of it.
Now came the question about his degree, which could not be taken without
subscription to the Articles. Another consultation followed with
Carlton. There was no need of his becoming a B.A. at the moment; nothing
would be gained by it; better that he should postpone the step. He had
but to go down and say nothing about it; no one would be the wiser; and
if, at the end of six months, as Carlton sanguinely anticipated, he
found himself in a more comfortable frame of mind, then let him come up,
and set all right.
What was he to do with himself at the moment? There was little
difficulty here either, what to propose. He had better be reading with
some clergyman in the country; thus he would at once be preparing for
orders, and clearing his mind on the points which at present troubled
him; besides, he might thus have some opportunity for parochial duty,
which would have a tranquillizing 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
Carlton 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 philosophically,
historically, or doctrinally, and displayed the peculiar principles of
that Church; Hooker's great work, for instance; or Bull's _Defensio_ and
_Harmonia_, or Pearson's _Vindiciæ_, or Jackson on the Creed, a noble
work; to which Laud on Tradition might be added, though its form was
controversial. Such, too, were Bingham's Antiquities, Waterland on the
Use of Antiquity, Wall on Infant Baptism, and Palmer on the Liturgy. Nor
ought he to neglect practical and devotional authors, as Bishops Taylor,
Wilson, and Horne. The most important point remained; whither was he to
betake himself? did he know of any clergyman in the country who would be
willing to receive him as a friend and a pupil? Charles thought of
Campbell, with whom he was on the best of terms; and Carlton knew enough
of him by reputation, to be perfectly sure that he could not be in safer
hands.
Charles, in consequence, made the proposal to him, and it was accepted.
Nothing then remained for him but to pay a few bills, to pack up some
books which he had left in a friend's room, and then to bid adieu, at
least for a time, to the cloisters and groves of the University. He
quitted in June, when everything was in that youthful and fragrant
beauty which he had admired so much in the beginning of his residence
three years before.
Part III.
CHAPTER I.
But now we must look forward, not back. Once before we took leave to
pass over nearly two years in the life of the subject of this narrative,
and now a second and a dreary and longer interval shall be consigned to
oblivion, and the reader shall be set down in the autumn of the year
next but one after that in which Charles took his class and did not take
his degree.
At this time our interest is confined to Boughton and the Rectory at
Sutton. As to Melford, friend Bateman had accepted the incumbency of a
church in a manufacturing town with a district of 10,000 souls, where he
was full of plans for the introduction of the surplice and gilt
candlesticks among his people, and where, it is to be hoped, he will
learn wisdom. Willis also was gone, on a different errand: he had bid
adieu to his mother and brother soon after Charles had gone into the
schools, and now was Father Aloysius de Sanctâ 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 countenance to what is so very wrong,"
said Mary.
"Why, what is to be done?" answered Campbell; "and we need not
countenance it; he can't be kept in leading-strings for ever, and there
has been a kind of bargain. He wanted to make a move at the end of the
first year--I didn't think it worth while to fidget you about it--but I
quieted him. We compounded in this way: he removed his name from the
college-boards,--there was not the slightest chance of his ever signing
the Articles,--and he 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 never
spoken to me on the subject. I fancy she thinks it a scruple;
troublesome, certainly, but of course temporary."
"I must break it to her, Mary," said Campbell.
"Well, I think it _must_ be done," she replied, heaving a sudden sigh;
"and if so, it will be a real kindness in you to save me a 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 beautiful landscape,
with bold hills in the distance, and a rushing river beneath him.
Campbell came up to him without his perceiving it; and, putting his hand
on his shoulder, asked his thoughts.
Charles turned round, and smiled sadly. "I am like Moses seeing the
land," he said; "my dear Campbell, when shall the end be?"
"That, my good Charles, of course does not rest with me," answered
Campbell.
"Well," said he, "the year is long run out; may I go my way?"
"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 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
account? Do seriously consider the actual misery you are causing for
possible good."
"Do you think I have not considered it, Campbell? Is it nothing for one
like me to be breaking all these dear ties, and to be losing the esteem
and sympathy of so many persons I love? Oh, it has been a most piercing
thought; but I have exhausted it, I have drunk it out. I have got
familiar 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 myself a by-word and an outcast."
"Oh, my dear Charles," answered Campbell, "beware of a very subtle
temptation which may come on you here. I have meant to warn you of it
before. The greatness of the sacrifice stimulates you; you do it because
it is so much to do."
Charles smiled. "How little you know me!" he said; "if that were the
case, should I have waited patiently two years and more? Why did I not
rush forward as others have done? _You_ will not deny that I have acted
rationally, obediently. I have put the subject from me again and again,
and it has returned."
"I'll say nothing harsh or unkind of you, Charles," said Campbell; "but
it's a most unfortunate delusion. I wish I could make you take in the
idea that there is the chance of its _being_ a delusion."
"Ah, Campbell, how can you forget so?" answered Charles; "don't you know
this is the very thing which has influenced me so much all along? I
said, 'Perhaps I am in a dream. Oh, that I could pinch myself and
awake!' You know what stress I laid on my change of feeling upon my dear
father's death; what I thought to be convictions before, vanished then
like a cloud. I have said to myself, 'Perhaps these will vanish too.'
But no; 'the clouds return after the rain;' they come again and again,
heavier than ever. It is a conviction rooted in me; it endures against
the prospect of loss of mother and sisters. Here I sit wasting my days,
when I might be useful in life. Why? Because this hinders me. Lately it
has increased on me tenfold. You will be shocked, but let me tell you
in confidence,--lately I have been quite afraid to ride, or to bathe, or
to do anything out of the way, lest something should happen, and I might
be taken away with a great duty unaccomplished. No, by this time I have
proved that it is a real conviction. My belief in the Church of Rome is
part of myself; I cannot act against it without acting against God."
"It is a most deplorable state of things certainly," said Campbell, who
had begun to walk up and down the room; "that it is a delusion, I am
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 _faith_.' If I have good grounds for
believing, to believe is a duty; God will take care of His own work. I
shall not be deserted in my utmost need. Faith ever begins with a
venture, and is rewarded with sight."
"Yes, my good Charles," answered 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.
Therefore, consent; let me go."
"Let you go!" answered Campbell; "certainly, were it the Catholic Church
to which you are going, there would be no need to ask; but 'let you go,'
how can you expect it from us when we do not think so? Think of our
case, Charles, as well as your own; throw yourself into our state of
feeling. For myself, I cannot deny, I never have concealed from you my
convictions, that the Romish Church is antichristian. 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;' 'let me go sleep in a
fever-ward;' 'let me jump into that well;'--how can I 'let you go'?"
"Ah," said Charles, "that's our dreadful difference; we can't get
farther than that. _I_ think the Church of Rome the Prophet of God;
_you_, the tool of the devil."
"I own," said Campbell, "I do think that, if you take this step, you
will find yourself in the hands of a Circe, who will change you, make a
brute of you."
Charles slightly coloured.
"I won't go on," added Campbell; "I pain you; it's no good; perhaps I am
making 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 soon to be united by closer
ties. God reward you; but 'let me go, for the day breaketh.'"
"It is hopeless!" cried Campbell; "let us part friends: I must break it
to your mother."
In ten days after this conversation Charles was ready for his journey;
his room put to rights; his portmanteau strapped; and a gig at the door,
which was to take him the first stage. He was to go round by Boughton;
it had been arranged by Campbell and Mary that it would be best for him
not to see his mother (to whom Campbell had broken the matter at once)
till he took leave of her. It would be needless pain to both of them to
attempt an interview sooner.
Charles leapt from the gig with a beating heart, and ran up to his
mother's room. She was sitting by the fire at her work when he entered;
she held out her hand coldly to him, and he sat down. Nothing was said
for a little while; then, without leaving 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 answered that he had not yet turned his mind to the
consideration of anything but the great step on which everything else
depended.
There was another silence; then she said, "You won't find anywhere such
friends as you have had at home, Charles." Presently she continued, "You
have had everything in your favour, 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; you have taken your line."
Poor Charles said that no one could conceive what it cost him to give up
what was so very dear to him, what was part of himself; there was
nothing on earth which he prized like his home.
"Then why do you leave us?" she said quickly; "you must have your way;
you do it, I suppose, because you like it."
"Oh 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 mantelpiece, supporting his head on his
hand.
"Well, Charles," she continued, still going on with her work, "perhaps
the day will come" ... her voice faltered; "your dear father" ... she
put down her work.
"It is useless misery," said Charles; "why should I stay? good-bye for
the present, my dearest mother. I leave you in good hands, not kinder,
but better than mine; you lose me, you gain another. Farewell for the
present; we will meet when you will, when you call; it will be a happy
meeting."
He threw himself on his knees, and laid his cheek on her lap; she could
no longer resist him; she hung over him, and began to smooth down his
hair as she had done when he was a child. At length scalding tears began
to fall heavily upon his face and neck; he bore them for a while, then
started up, kissed her cheek 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 Collumpton.
CHAPTER II.
The reader may ask whither Charles is going, and, though it would not be
quite true to answer that he did not know better than the said reader
himself, yet he had most certainly very indistinct notions what was
becoming of him even locally, and, like the Patriarch, "went out, not
knowing whither he went." He had 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 London; and
it was not unnatural that, without knowing whether young Father Aloysius
was there or not, he should direct his course to San Michaele.
Yet, in kindness to Mary and all of them, he did not profess to be
leaving direct for London; but he proposed to betake himself to Carlton,
who still resided in Oxford, and to ask his advice what was to be done
under his circumstances. It seemed, too, to be interposing what they
would consider a last chance of averting what to them was so dismal a
calamity.
To Oxford, then, he directed his course; and, having some accidental
business at Bath, he stopped there for the night, intending to continue
his journey next morning. Among other jobs, he had to get a "Garden of
the Soul," and two or three similar books which might help him in the
great preparation which awaited his arrival in London. He went into a
religious publisher's in Danvers Street with that object, and while
engaged in a back part of the shop in looking over a pile of Catholic
works, which, to the religious public, had 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;
somewhat such as might beset a man on hearing a call for pork-chops when
he was sea-sick. He retreated behind a pile of ledgers and other
stationery, but they could not save him from the low, dulcet tones which
from time to time passed from one to the other.
"Have you got some of the last Oxford reprints of standard works?" said
the bridegroom to the shopman.
"Yes, sir; but which set did you mean? 'Selections from Old Divines,'
or, 'New Catholic Adaptations'?"
"Oh, not the Adaptations," answered he, "they 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."
"Oh, Miss Primrose, so it was," said she; "and there was one book she
recommended, what was it?"
"Not a book, 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 _that_."
The shopman returned. "Oh, what a sweet face!" she said, looking at the
frontispiece of a little book she got hold of; "do look, Henry; 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," 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," continued she; "oh, I know; it's
Angelina's aunt, Lady Constance."
"Come, Louisa, the horses too will suffer; we must return to our
friends."
"Oh, there's one book, I can't recollect it; tell me what it is, Henry.
I shall be so sorry not to have got it."
"Was it the new work on Gregorian Chants?" asked he.
"Ah, it's true, I want it for the school-children, but it's not that."
"Is it 'The Catholic Parsonage'?" he asked again; "or, 'Lays of the
Apostles'? or, '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."
"Oh, I recollect," she said, "I recollect--'Abbeys and Abbots;' I want
to get some hints for improving the rectory-windows when we get home;
and our church wants, you know, a porch for the poor people. The book is
full of designs."
The book was found and added to the rest, which had been already taken
to the 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 greenhouse;
there is no good gardener in our own neighbourhood."
"What is the good, Louisa, now?" said her husband; "we shan't be at home
this month to come;" and then, with due resignation, he directed the
coachman to the nurseryman's whom Louisa named, as he put her into the
carriage, and then followed her.
Charles breathed freely as they went out; a severe text of Scripture
rose on his mind, but he repressed the uncharitable feeling, and turned
himself to the anxious duties which lay before him.
CHAPTER III.
Nothing happened to Charles worth relating before his arrival at
Steventon next day; when, the afternoon being fine, he left his
portmanteau to follow him by the omnibus, and put himself 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, suddenly recovered--recovered to be
lost for ever! There lay old Oxford before him, with its hills as gentle
and its meadows as green as ever. At the first view of that beloved
place he stood still with folded arms, unable to proceed. Each college,
each church--he counted them by their pinnacles and turrets. The silver
Isis, the grey willows, the far-stretching plains, the dark groves, the
distant range of Shotover, the 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
boyhood 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 anything;
no one to take interest in him, to feel tender towards him, to defend
him. He had suffered much, but there was no one to believe that he had
suffered. He would be thought to be inflicting merely, not undergoing,
suffering. He might indeed say that he had suffered; but he would be
rudely told that every one follows his own will, and that if he had
given up Oxford, it was for a whim which he liked better than it. But
rather, there was no one to know him; he had been virtually three years
away; three years is a generation; Oxford had been his place once, but
his place knew him no more. He recollected with what awe and transport
he had at first come to the University, as to some sacred shrine; and
how from time to time hopes had come over him that some day or other he
should have gained a title to residence on one of its ancient
foundations. One night in particular came across his memory, how a
friend and he had ascended to the top of one of its many towers with the
purpose of making observations on the stars; and how, while his friend
was busily engaged with the pointers, he, earthly-minded youth, had
been looking down into the deep, gas-lit, dark-shadowed quadrangles,
and wondering if he should ever be Fellow of this or that College, which
he singled out from the mass of 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 distance; he had gained the road before their
owner crossed him; it was a college-tutor whom he had known a little.
Charles expected to 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 hats, 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 _æger_ dinners; pastry-cook boys were
bringing in desserts; shabby fellows with Blenheim puppies were
loitering under Canterbury Gate. Many stared, but no one knew him. He
hurried up Oriel Lane; suddenly a start and a low bow from a passer-by;
who could it be? it was a superannuated shoeblack of his college, to
whom he had sometimes given a stray shilling. He gained the High Street,
and turned down towards the Angel. What was approaching? the vision of a
proctor. Charles felt some instinctive quiverings; but it passed by him,
and did no harm. Like Kehama, he had a charmed life. And now he had
reached his inn, where he found his portmanteau all ready for him. He
chose a bedroom, and, after fully inducting himself into it, turned his
thoughts towards dinner.
He wished to lose no time, but, if possible, to proceed to London the
following morning. It would be a great point if he could get to his
journey's end so early in the week, that by Sunday, if he was thought
worthy, he might offer up his praises for the mercies vouchsafed to him
in the great and holy communion of the Universal Church. Accordingly he
determined to make an attempt on Carlton that evening; and hoped, if he
went to his room between seven and eight, to find him returned from
Common-Room. With this intention he sallied out at about the half-hour,
gained Carlton's College, knocked at the gate, entered, passed on, up
the worn wooden steep staircase. The oak was closed; he descended, found
a servant; "Mr. Carlton was giving a dinner in Common-Room; it would
soon be over." Charles determined to wait for him.
The servant lighted candles in the inner room, and Charles sat down at
the fire. For awhile he sat in reflection; then he looked about for
something to occupy him. His eye caught an Oxford paper; it was but a
few days old. "Let us see how the old place goes on," he said to
himself, as he took it up. He glanced from one article to another,
looking who were the University-preachers of the week, who had taken
degrees, who were public examiners, etc., etc., when his eye was
arrested by the following paragraph:--
"DEFECTION 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. Saviour's, the son of a respectable clergyman of the
Establishment, deceased, after eating the bread of the Church all his
life, has at length avowed himself the subject and slave of an Italian
Bishop. Disappointment in the schools is said to have been the
determining cause of this infatuated act. It is reported that legal
measures are in progress for directing the penalties of the Statute of
Præmunire 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 who were Carlton's guests in the
neighbouring Common-Room. Tea and coffee had made their appearance, the
men 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 neighbour, 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 Vacation, is a good scholar, and ought
to have gained his class. I have not heard of him for some time."
"He has other friends in the room," said another: "I think," turning to
a young Fellow of Leicester, "_you_, Sheffield, were at one time
intimate with Reding?"
"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 groups, as the
guests stood together. Nor was the subject a popular one; rather it was
either a painful or a disgusting subject to the whole party, two or
three curious and hard minds excepted, to whom opposition to Catholicism
was meat and drink. Besides, in such chance collections of men, no one
knew exactly his neighbour's opinion about it; and, as in this instance,
there were often friends of the accused or calumniated present. And,
moreover, there was a generous feeling, and a consciousness how much
seceders from the Anglican Church were giving up, which kept down any
disrespectful mention of them.
"Are you to do much in the schools this term?" said one to another.
"I don't know: we have two men going up, good scholars."
"Who has come into Stretton's place?"
"Jackson, of King's."
"Jackson? indeed; he's strong in science, I think."
"Very."
"Our men know their books well, but I should not say that science is
their line."
"Leicester sends four."
"It will be a large class-list, from what I hear."
"Ah! indeed! the Michaelmas paper is always a good one."
Meanwhile the conversation was in another quarter dwelling upon poor
Charles.
"No, depend upon it, there's more in what the _Gazette_ says than you
think. Disappointment is generally at the bottom of these changes."
"Poor devils! they can't help it," said another, in a low voice, to his
neighbour.
"A good riddance, anyhow," said the party addressed; "we shall have a
little 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 now spoke with positiveness.
He addressed himself, between the two heads which had just been talking
in private, to the group beyond them. "It's all the effect of
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," as if it
ought to have closed the conversation. It said abruptly, "I respect him
uncommonly; I have an extreme respect for him. He's an honest man; I
wish others were as honest. If they were, then, as the Puseyites are
becoming Catholics, so we should see old Brownside and his clique
becoming Unitarians. But they mean to stick in."
Most persons present felt the truth of his remark, and a silence
followed it for a while. It was broken by a clear cackling voice: "Did
you ever hear," said he, nodding his head, or rather his whole person,
as he spoke, "did you ever, Sheffield, happen to hear that this
gentleman, your friend Mr. Reding, when he was quite a freshman, had a
conversation with some _attaché_ 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 Sheffield, "for that must have been at least, let me
see, four or five years ago."
"Oh," continued Fusby, "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.
"Oh, it's quite a concentration, a quintessence of Protestant feeling,"
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 do your men come up?" said Sheffield to Vincent.
"Next Saturday," answered Vincent.
"They always come up late," said Sheffield.
"Yes, the House met last week."
"St. Michael's has met too," said Sheffield: "so have we."
"We have a reason for meeting late: many of our men come from the North
and from Ireland."
"That's no reason, with railroads."
"I see they have begun our rail," said Vincent; "I thought the
University had opposed it."
"The Pope in his own states 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?"
"Oh, oh," 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 _tête-à-tête_ with the latter, while
he prosed to him _in extenso_ about Pope Sixtus XIV., the Jesuits,
suspected men in the University, Mede on the Apostasy, the Catholic
Relief Bill, Dr. Pusey's Tract on Baptism, Justification, and the
appointment of the Taylor Professors.
At length, however, Carlton was released. He ran across the quadrangle
and up his staircase; flung open his door, and made his way to his inner
room. A person was just rising to meet him; impossible! but it was
though. "What? Reding!" he cried; "who would have thought! what a
pleasure! we were just-- ... What brings you here?" he added, in an
altered tone. Then gravely, "Reding, where are you?"
"Not yet a Catholic," said Reding.
There was a silence; the answer conveyed a good deal: it was a relief,
but it was an intimation. "Sit down, my dear Reding; will you have
anything? have you dined? What a pleasure to see you, old fellow! Are we
really to lose you?" They were soon in conversation on the great
subject.
CHAPTER V.
"If you have made up your mind, Reding," said 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 about
him, as on those of others. It could not possibly be otherwise; he was
sure himself to feel different about Carlton.
After a while, Carlton said gently, "Is it quite impossible, Reding,
that now at the eleventh hour we may retain you? what _are_ your
grounds?"
"Don't let us argue, dear Carlton," answered Reding; "I have done with
argument. Or, if I must say something for 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 teachings; the creed which upholds the divinity of tradition
with Laud, consent of Fathers with Beveridge, a visible Church with
Bramhall, dogma with Bull, the authority of the Pope with Thorndike,
penance with Taylor, prayers for the dead with Ussher, celibacy,
asceticism, ecclesiastical discipline with Bingham. I am going to a
Church, which in these, and a multitude of other points, is nearer the
Apostolic Church than any existing one; which is the continuation of the
Apostolic Church, if it has been continued at all. And _seeing_ it to be
_like_ the Apostolic Church, I _believe_ it to be the _same_. Reason has
gone first, faith is to follow."
He stopped, and Carlton did not reply; a silence 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 determined; I cannot go back."
"Is that a nice feeling?" said Carlton, half reproachfully.
"Understand me," answered Reding; "I have come to my resolution with
great deliberation. It has remained on my mind as a mere intellectual
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 biassed in arriving at it? one notion 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 conviction indeed, to set
against the mischief you are doing by a step of this kind. Consider how
many persons you are unsettling; what a triumph you are giving to the
enemies of all religion; what 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 such an act, 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 that there is no salvation in our Church?" said Carlton,
rather coldly.
"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," Reding replied. "But it's so on so
many other subjects! it's always so. Are members of the Church of
England to seek the truth, or have they it given them from the first? do
they seek it for themselves, or is it ready provided for them?"
Carlton thought a moment, and seemed doubtful what to answer; then he
said that we must, of course, seek it. It was a part of our moral
probation to seek the truth.
"Then don't talk to me about our position," said Charles; "I hardly
expected _you_ to make this answer; but it is what the majority of
Church-of-England people say. They tell us to seek, they give us rules
for seeking, they make us exert our private judgment; but directly we
come to any conclusion but theirs, they turn round and talk to us of our
'providential position.' But there's another thing. Tell me, supposing
we ought all to seek the truth, do you think that members of the English
Church do seek it in that way which Scripture enjoins upon all seekers?
Think how very seriously Scripture speaks of the arduousness of finding,
the labour of 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 has
'seceded,' and condemn him, and" (glancing at the newspaper 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."
Reding had got somewhat excited; the paragraph in the newspaper had
annoyed him. But, without taking that into account, there was enough in
the circumstances in which he found himself to throw him out of his
ordinary state of mind. He was in a crisis of peculiar trial, which a
person must have felt to understand. Few men go to battle in cold 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 persons 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 deprecating.
"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
anything too strongly or earnestly." Carlton thought he had; he thought
him in an excited state; but it was no use telling him so; so he merely
pressed his offered hand affectionately, and said nothing.
Presently he said, dryly and abruptly, "Reding, do you know any Roman
Catholics?"
"No," answered Reding; "Willis indeed, but I hav'n't seen even him these
two years. It has been entirely the working of my own mind."
Carlton did not answer at once; then he said, as dryly and abruptly as
before, "I suspect, then, you will have much to bear with when you know
them."
"What do you mean?" asked Reding.
"You will find them under-educated men, I suspect."
"What do _you_ know of them?" said Reding.
"I suspect it," answered Carlton.
"But what's that to the purpose?" asked Charles.
"It's a thing you should think of. An English clergyman is a gentleman;
you may have more to bear than you reckon for, when you find yourself
with men of rude minds and vulgar manners."
"My dear Carlton, a'n't you talking of what you know nothing at all
about?"
"Well, but you should think of it, you should contemplate it," said
Carlton; "I judge from their letters and speeches which one reads in the
papers."
Charles thought awhile; 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 outside. What offends me in Catholic 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
Exeter Hall, nay, not by Episcopal Charges. We see the interior of our
own Church, the exterior of the Church of Rome. This is not a fair
comparison."
"But look at their books of devotion," insisted Carlton; "they can't
write English."
Reding smiled at Carlton, and slowly shook his head to and fro, while he
said, "They write English, I suppose, as classically as St. John writes
Greek."
Here again the conversation halted, and nothing was heard for a while
but the simmering of the kettle.
There was no good in disputing, as might be seen from the first; each
had his own view, and that was the beginning and the end of the matter.
Charles stood up. "Well, dearest Carlton," he said, "we must part; it
must be going on for eleven." He pulled out of his pocket a small
"Christian Year." "You have often seen me with this," he continued,
"accept it in memory of me. You will not see me, but here is a pledge
that I will not forget you, that I will ever remember you." He stopped,
much affected. "Oh, it is very hard to leave you all, to go to
strangers," he went on; "I do not wish it, but I cannot help it; I am
called, I am compelled." He stopped again; the tears flowed down his
cheeks. "All is well," he said, recovering himself, "all is well; but
it's hard at the time, and scarcely any one to feel for me; black looks,
bitter words.... I am pleasing myself, following my own will ...
well...." and he began looking at his fingers 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...." Another
pause, and a new train of thought came over him; "Oh," he said, "I fear
so very much, so very much, that all you who do not come forward will go
back. 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. They
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-bye. May we meet not long hence in peace and joy. I
cannot go to you; you must come to me."
They embraced each other affectionately; and the next minute Charles was
running down the staircase.
CHAPTER VI.
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 re-entered the monastic
buildings, meeting with nothing but scouts with boxes of cinders, and
old women carrying off the remains of the kitchen. He crossed to the
Meadow, and walked steadily down to the junction of the Cherwell with
the Isis; he then turned 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. Charles 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 question 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 generation, where he had been placed? He
recollected some lines in the Ethics of Aristotle, quoted by the
philosopher from an old poet, in which the poor outcast Philoctetes
laments over his own stupid officiousness, as he calls it, which had
been the cause of his misfortunes. Was he not a busybody too? Why could
he not let well alone? Better men than he had lived and died in the
English Church. And then what if, as Campbell had said, all his
so-called convictions were to vanish just as he entered the Roman pale,
as they had done on his father's death? He began to envy Sheffield; all
had turned out well with him--a good class, a fellowship, merely or
principally because he had taken things as they came, and not gone
roaming after visions. He felt himself violently assaulted; but he was
not deserted, not overpowered. His good sense, rather his good Angel,
came to his aid; evidently he was in no way able to argue or judge at
that moment; the 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 that worn, or rather that unplacid appearance, which even
slight physical suffering, if habitual, gives to the features, and his
eyes were pale from study or other cause. Charles thought he had seen
his face before, but he could not recollect where or when. But what most
interested him was his dress and appearance, which was such as is rarely
found in a travelling-companion. It was of an unusual 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 silence, longing yet afraid to speak. At length, on the
train stopping at the station, he addressed a few words to him in
French. His 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 mutual 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 said, "Perhaps I can read you, sir, better
than you can me. You are an Oxford man by your appearance."
Charles assented.
"A bachelor?" He was of near Master's standing. His companion, who did
not seem in a humour for talking, proceeded to various questions about
the University, as if out of civility. What colleges sent Proctors that
year? Were the Taylor Professors appointed? Were they members of the
Church of England? Did the new Bishop of Bury keep his Headship? &c.,
&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 leant 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 suppose I was of
Oxford?"
"Not _entirely_ by your look and manner, for I saw you jump from the
omnibus at Steventon; but with that assistance it was impossible to
mistake."
"I have heard others say the same," said Charles; "yet I can't myself
make out how an Oxford man should be known from another."
"Not only Oxford men, but Cambridge men, are known by their appearance;
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 self," 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 first sight," he said, "how it was
rational to maintain that so much depended on holding this or that
doctrine, or a little more or a little less, but it might be a test of
the heart."
His companion looked pleased; however, he observed, that "there was no
'more or less' in faith; that either we believed the whole revealed
message, or really we believed no part of it; that we ought to believe
what the Church proposed to us on the _word_ of the Church."
"Yet surely the so-called Evangelical believes more than the Unitarian,
and the High-Churchman than the Evangelical," objected Charles.
"The question," said his fellow-traveller, "is, whether they submit
their reason implicitly to that which they have received as God's word."
Charles assented.
"Would you say, then," 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 Scripture, but, unconsciously to himself, some view of
things in his mind which is to him the measure of Scripture."
"Then he believes himself, if we may so speak," said the priest, "and
not the external word of God."
"Certainly."
"Well, in like manner," he continued, "do you think a person can have
real faith in that which he admits to be the word of God, who passes by,
without attempting to understand, such passages as 'the Church the
pillar and ground of the 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'?"
"No," 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, waiving
this question, I understand what a Catholic means by saying that he goes
by the voice of the Church; it means, practically, by the voice of the
first priest he meets. Every priest is the voice of the Church. This is
quite intelligible. In matters of doctrine, he has faith in the word of
any priest. But what, where, is that 'word' of the Church which the
persons you speak of believe in? and when do they exercise their belief?
Is it not an undeniable fact, that, so far from all Anglican clergymen
agreeing together in faith, what the first says, the second will unsay?
so that an Anglican cannot, if he would, have faith in them, and
necessarily, though he would not, chooses 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--who, from knowledge of the Gospels, have an absolute conviction and
an intimate sense of the reality of the sacred facts contained in them,
which, whether you call it faith or not, is powerful enough to colour
their whole being with its influence, and rules their heart and conduct
as well as their imagination. I can't believe that these persons are
out of God's favour; yet, according to your account of the matter, they
have not faith."
"Do you think these persons believe and practise all that is brought
home to them as being in Scripture?" asked his companion.
"Certainly they do," answered Charles, "as far as man can judge."
"Then perhaps they may be practising the virtue of faith; if there are
passages in it to which they are insensible, as about the sacraments,
penance, and extreme unction, or about the See of Peter, I should in
charity think that these passages had never been brought home or applied
to their minds and consciences--just as a Pope's Bull may be for a time
unknown in a distant part of the Church. They may be[1] in involuntary
ignorance. Yet I fear that, taking the whole nation, there are few who
on this score can lay claim to faith."
[1] "Errantes invincibiliter circa aliquos articulos, et
credentes alios, non sunt formaliter hæretici, sed habent fidem
supernaturalem, quâ credunt veros articulos, atque adeo ex eâ
possunt procedere actus perfectæ contritionis, quibus justificentur
et salventur."--_De Lugo de Fid._, p. 169.
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
Gospels to be from God. If, then, he already believes the latter, why
should he not believe the former?"
"But the belief in the Gospels is a traditional belief," said Charles;
"that makes all the difference. I cannot see how a nation like England,
which has lost the faith, ever can recover it. Hence, in the matter of
conversion, Providence has generally visited simple and barbarous
nations."
"The converts of the 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 author laments over the
madness of men's destroying what they could not replace, what it would
take centuries and a strange combination of fortunate circumstances to
reproduce, an external received 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, 'Oh,
that I had been educated a Catholic!' but he has not so 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_."