Charles's trials were not at an end; and we suspect the reader will
give a shudder at the news, as having a very material share in the
infliction. Yet the reader's case has this great alleviation, that he
takes up this 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 honour of an interview with Mr. Reding.
Charles groaned, but only one reply was possible; the day was already
wasted, and with a sort of dull resignation he gave permission for the
introduction of the stranger.
It was a pale-faced man of about thirty-five, who, when he spoke,
arched his eyebrows, and had a peculiar smile. He began by expressing
his apprehension that Mr. Reding must have been wearied by impertinent
and unnecessary visitors—visitors without intellect, who knew no
better than to obtrude their fanaticism on persons who did but despise
it. “I know more about the Universities,” he continued, “than to
suppose that any congeniality can exist between their members and the
mass of religious sectarians. You have had very 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 distinguished
Confessors in that all-momentous occupation; and I have thought I could
not pay yourself individually, whose name has lately honourably
appeared in the papers, a better compliment than to get you elected a
member of our Truth Society. And here is your diploma,” he added,
handing a sheet of paper to him. Charles glanced his eye over it; it
was a paper, part engraving, part print, part manuscript. An emblem of
truth was in the centre, represented, not by a radiating sun or star,
as might be expected, but as the moon under total eclipse, surrounded,
as by cherub faces, by the heads of Socrates, Cicero, Julian, Abelard,
Luther, Benjamin Franklin, and Lord Brougham. Then followed some
sentences to the effect that the London Branch 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
dignified and responsible office of associate and corresponding member.
“I thank the Truth Society very much,” said Charles, when he got to
the end of the paper, “for this mark of their good will; yet I regret
to have scruples about accepting it till some of the patrons are
changed, whose heads are prefixed to the diploma. For instance, I do
not like to be under the shadow of the Emperor Julian.”
“You would 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 error.”
“No, not so,” answered Mr. Batts; “he thought it Truth; and
Julian, I conceive, cannot be said to have deserted the Truth, because,
in fact, he always was in pursuit of 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 little
pamphlet, in which you will find some fundamental truths stated, almost
in the way of aphorisms. I wish to direct your attention to page 8,
where they are drawn out.”
Charles turned to the page, and read as follows:—
“On the pursuit of Truth.
1. It is uncertain whether Truth exists.
2. It is certain that it cannot be found.
3. It is a folly to boast of possessing it.
4. Man's work and duty, as man, consist, not in possessing, but
in
seeking it.
5. His happiness and true dignity 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
selfishness in claiming to possess.
10. The martyr of Truth is he who dies professing that it is a
shadow.
11. A life-long martyrdom is this, to be ever changing.
12. The fear of error is the bane of inquiry.”
Charles did not get further than these, but others 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
represent Christianity as hostile to the progress of the mind, and to
turn into enemies of revelation those who do sincerely wish to 'live
and let live.'”
“But contradictions cannot be true,” said Charles: “if Christianity
says that Truth can be found, it must be an error to state that it
cannot be found.”
“I conceive it to be intolerant,” persisted Mr. Batts: “you will
grant, I suppose, that 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 connexion of
philosophy with religion; a silence ensued of several minutes, and Mr.
Batts at length took the hint, for he rose with a disappointed air, and
wished him good morning.
It mattered little now whether he was left to himself or not, except
that conversation harassed and fretted him; for, as to turning his mind
to the subjects which were to have been his occupation that morning, it
was by this time far too much wearied and dissipated to undertake them.
On Mr. Batts' 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 crimson colour of his face and throat, for
he wore no collars, and his staid and pompous bearing, added to his
rapid delivery when he spoke, gave him much the look of a farm-yard
turkey-cock in the eyes of any one who was less disgusted with seeing
new faces than Reding was at that moment. The new comer looked sharply
at him as he entered. “Your most obedient,” he said abruptly; “you seem
in low spirits, my dear sir; but sit down, Mr. Reding, and give me the
opportunity of offering to you a little good advice. You may guess what
I am by my appearance: I speak for myself; I will say no more; I can be
of use to you. Mr. Reding,” he 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, 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
door-steps scrubbed. Why become a convert to Popery, when you can
obtain your object in a cheaper and better way? Set up for yourself, my
dear sir—set up for yourself; form a new denomination, 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 flat on his extended knees, watching with a
self-satisfied air the effect of his words upon Reding.
“I have had enough of this,” said poor Charles; “you, indeed, are
but one of a number, sir, and would say you had nothing to do with the
rest; but I cannot help 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 kindness of going.” And
Charles rose up.
His visitor did not seem inclined to move, or to notice what he had
said. He stopped awhile, opened his 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
into my pocket a little tract which I shall press upon you with all the
Christian solicitude which brother can show towards brother. Here it
is; I have the greatest confidence in it; perhaps you have heard the
name; it is known as Kitchens's Spiritual Elixir. The Elixir has
enlightened millions; and, I will take on me to say, will convert you
in twenty-four hours. Its operation is mild and pleasurable, and its
effects are marvellous, prodigious, though it 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
conversion followed instantaneously after the perusal. At once, poor
sinners, who five minutes before had been like the demoniac in the
gospel, were seen sitting 'clothed, and in their right mind.' Thus I
speak within the mark, Mr. 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 exceptio probat regulam, for on
further inquiry we found he could not read. So the tract was slowly
administered to him by another person; and before it was finished, I
protest to you, Mr. Reding, he fell into a deep and healthy slumber,
perspired profusely, and woke up at the end of twelve hours a new
creature, perfectly new, bran new, and fit for heaven—whither he went
in the course of the week. We are now making farther 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 condescend to any farther
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.
Macanoise, contested ten points with thirty Jesuits—a good half of the
Jesuits in London—and beat them upon all. Or have you heard any of the
luminaries of Exeter Hall? There is Mr. Gabb; he is a Boanerges, a
perfect Niagara, for his torrent of words; such momentum in his
delivery; it is as rapid as it's strong; it's enough to knock a man
down. He can speak seven hours running without 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. He began at Devonport and ended at Berwick, and
surpassed himself on every delivery. At Berwick, his last exhibition,
the effect was perfectly tremendous; a friend of mine heard it; he
assures me, incredible as it may appear, that it shattered some glass
in a neighbouring house; and two priests of Baal, who were with their
day-school within a quarter of a mile of Mr. Gabb, were so damaged by
the mere echo, that one forthwith took to his bed and the other has
walked on crutches ever since.” He stopped awhile; 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. “Oh,” he said suddenly, “then I suppose, Dr.
Kitchens, you can't tolerate the cross?”
“Oh no; tolerate it!” answered Dr. Kitchens; “it is Antichrist.”
“You can't bear the sight of it, I suspect, Dr. Kitchens?”
“I can't endure it, sir; what true Protestant can?”
“Then look here,” said Charles, taking a small crucifix out of his
writing-desk; and he held it before Dr. Kitchens' face.
Dr. Kitchens at once started on his feet, and 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 Dr. Kitchens with it, while he kept it out of
Dr. Kitchens' reach.
“Take it away, Mr. Reding, I beseech you,” cried Kitchens, still
retreating, while Charles still pressed on him; “take it away, it's too
much. Oh, oh! Spare me, spare me, Mr. Reding!—nehushtan—an idol!—oh,
you young antichrist, you devil!—'tis He, 'tis He—torment!—spare me,
Mr. Reding.” And the miserable man began to dance about, still eyeing
the sacred sign, and motioning it from him.
Charles now had victory in his hands: there was, indeed, some
difficulty in steering 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 time, with such forgetfulness of everything 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.