Neither of the friends had what are called views in religion;
by which expression we do not here signify that neither had taken up a
certain line of opinion, though this was the case 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, then; men 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 persons kindle no recollections. They hear of men, and
things, and projects, and struggles, and principles; but everything
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 Conservative, High Church or
Low Church, they do Whig acts, Tory acts, Catholic acts, and heretical
acts, as the fit takes them, or as events or parties drive them. And
sometimes, when their self-importance is hurt, they take refuge in the
idea that all this is a proof that they are unfettered, moderate,
dispassionate, that they 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 hap-hazard; he is obliged, from a
sort of self-respect, to have some rule or other, true or false; and
Charles was very fond of the maxim, which he has 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 soil'd with sinful clay,
Are yet, to eyes that see them true,
All glistening with baptismal dew.”
He liked, as he walked along the road, and met labourer or horseman,
gentleman or beggar, to say to himself, “He is a Christian.” And when
he came to Oxford, he came there with an enthusiasm so simple and warm
as to be almost childish. He reverenced even the velvet of the Pro.;
nay, the cocked hat which preceded the Preacher had its claim on his
deferential regard. 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 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 bye-lanes, with
their green hedges, wound and vanished, yet were not lost to the
imagination. Such was our first journey; but when we had gone it
several times, the mind refused to act, the scene ceased to enchant,
stern reality alone 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 intellectually with things as they
are; he was critical, impatient to reduce things to system, pushed
principles too far, was fond of argument, partly from pleasure in the
exercise, partly because he was perplexed, though he did not lay
anything very much to heart.
They neither of them felt any special interest in the controversy
going on in the University and country about High and Low Church.
Sheffield had a sort of contempt for it; and Reding felt it to be bad
taste to be unusual or prominent in anything. 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 University were opposed to the whole movement. He could not help
looking at its leaders as demagogues; and towards demagogues he felt an
unmeasured aversion and contempt. He did not see why clergymen, however
respectable, should be collecting undergraduates about them; and he
heard stories of their way of going on which did not please him.
Moreover, he did not like the 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 apposite 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.