In a few minutes all met together at table in the small parlour, which was room of all work in the cottage. They had not the whole house, limited as were its resources; for it was also the habitation of a gardener, who took his vegetables to the Oxford market, and whose wife (what is called) did for his lodgers.
Dinner was suited to the apartment, apartment to the dinner. The book-table had been hastily cleared for a cloth, not over white, and, in consequence, the sole remaining table, which acted as sideboard, displayed a relay of plates and knives and forks, in the midst of octavos and duodecimos, bound and unbound, piled up and thrown about in great variety of shapes. The other ornaments of this side-table were an ink-glass, some quires of large paper, a straw hat, a gold watch, a clothes-brush, some bottles of ginger-beer, a pair of gloves, a case of cigars, a neck-handkerchief, a shoe-horn, a small slate, a large clasp-knife, a hammer, and a handsome inlaid writing-desk.
“I like these rides into the country,” said Vincent, as they began eating; “the country loses its effect on me when I live in it, as you do; but it is exquisite as a zest. Visit it, do not live in it, if you would enjoy it. Country air is a stimulus; stimulants, Mr. Reding, should not be taken too often. You are of the country party. I am of no party. I go here and there—like the bee—I taste of everything, I depend on nothing.”
Sheffield said that this was rather belonging to all parties than to none.
“That is impossible,” answered Vincent; “I hold it to be altogether impossible. You can’t belong to two parties; there’s no fear of it; you might as well attempt to be in two places at once. To be connected with both is to be united with neither. Depend on it, my young friend, antagonist principles correct each other. It’s a piece of philosophy which one day you will thank me for, when you are older.”
“I have heard of an American illustration of this,” said Sheffield, “which certainly confirms what you say, sir. Professors in the United States are sometimes of two or three religions at once, according as we regard them historically, personally, or officially. In this way, perhaps, they hit the mean.”
Vincent, though he so often excited a smile in others, had no humour himself, and never could make out the difference between irony and earnest. Accordingly he was brought to a stand.
Charles came to his relief. “Before dinner,” he said, “we were sporting what you will consider a great paradox, I am afraid; that parties were good things, or rather necessary things.”
“You don’t do me justice,” answered Vincent, “if this is what you think I deny. I halve your words; parties are not good, but necessary; like snails, I neither envy them their small houses, nor try to lodge in them myself.”
“You mean,” said Carlton, “that parties do our dirty work; they are our beasts of burden; we could not get on without them, but we need not identify ourselves with them; we may keep aloof.”
“That,” said Sheffield, “is something like those religious professors who say that it is sinful to engage in worldly though necessary occupations; but that the reprobate undertake them, and work for the elect.”
“There will always be persons enough in the world who like to be party men, without being told to be so,” said Vincent; “it’s our business to turn them to account, to use them, but to keep aloof. I take it, all parties are partly right, only they go too far. I borrow from each, I co-operate with each, as far as each is right and no further. Thus I get good from all, and I do good to all; for I countenance each, so far as it is true.”
“Mr. Carlton meant more than that, sir,” said Sheffield; “he meant that the existence of parties was not only necessary and useful, but even right.”
“Mr. Carlton is not the man to make paradoxes,” said Vincent; “I suspect he would not defend the extreme opinions, which, alas! exist among us at present, and are progressing every day.”
“I was speaking of political parties,” said Carlton, “but I am disposed to extend what I said to religious also.”
“But, my good Carlton,” said Vincent, “Scripture speaks against religious parties.”
“Certainly I don’t wish to oppose Scripture,” said Carlton, “and I speak under correction of Scripture; but I say this, that whenever and wherever a church does not decide religious points, so far does it leave the decision to individuals; and since you can’t expect all people to agree together, you must have different opinions; and the expression of those different opinions, by the various persons who hold them, is what is called a party.”
“Mr. Carlton has been great, sir, on the general subject before dinner,” said Sheffield, “and now he draws the corollary, that whenever there are parties in a church, a church may thank itself for them. They are the certain effect of private judgment; and the more private judgment you have, the more parties you will have. You are reduced, then, to this alternative, no toleration or else party; and you must recognise party, unless you refuse toleration.”