"True, but he is the schoolmaster, appointed by the rector and
dependent upon him. The service is conducted in a most slovenly
manner, and the music is quite painful. I offered to pay for a
proper choirmaster, but he said that was an insult to his wife's
sister, who plays the organ. The result of his bad manners and
dictatorial spirit is that the congregation has dwindled to a mere
handful, and they are mostly children whom the schoolmaster compels
to come. The fact is that dissent is increasing at an alarming rate,
and I think that soon there will be nothing left but the parson and
the glebe!"
"Can the bishop do nothing?" I asked.
"Apparently not. The bishop says that if a responsible person will
prefer charges he will take the matter up, but that 'a man cannot be
deprived of his living because he happens to be unpopular.' Of
course, if the Church of England exists to provide 'livings,' there
is nothing more to be said. But if its purpose is to minister to the
people, a way must be found to accomplish that. But I fear the
attempt will prove fatal to the Establishment."
Of course, you and I should not feel that this would be fatal to the
church, but what these men fear is that if the impartial hand of the
state is withdrawn, the church will become a sect, or rather as many
sects as there are now parties. And if disestablishment comes before
the laity have gained their rights, we can guess what the
"ecclesiastic" clerical, and especially the laymen--whom Thomas
Browne once referred to as "ecclesiastical eunuchs"!--will make of it.
Mr. Buckthorne, who had kept silent while we were talking, now said:
"This is a hard case, but it is nothing to what our parish has to
endure." I said, "What is your trouble? What has your parson done?"
"You might better ask what has he not done! In the first place,
there is a very ugly story about a farmer's daughter--the rights of
which I neither know nor wish to know--but as a result none of the
farmers will have anything to say to him. In the second place, he
sits in the bar of the public house every Saturday night till closing
time, drinking with the village topers, and consequently the
respectable tradesmen will not come into the church. And finally it
is reported--I do not say it is true, for I should not like to bring
such a charge against any man without positive proof--but I do know
it is commonly believed that he has shot partridges _sitting!_ and,
of course, after that, no _gentleman_ will have anything to do with
him."
"I should hope not," cried Sir William indignantly.
No, I did not laugh at this moral anticlimax. I again asked if the
bishop could do nothing.
"Oh, the bishop has been appealed to, and, being a good man himself
and a gentleman, is, of course, greatly distressed. I was one of
those who went to see him, but all he could say was: 'Dear me, this
is very sad. But it is to be remembered that the man is a rector and
has a vested interest in the living. Of course, if responsible
people can be found to substantiate these charges, undoubtedly he
could be brought to trial, but it must not be forgotten that the law
against libel is very stringent, and I should not care to move unless
I could be assured that a verdict in my favor was a little more than
probable.' And so the matter was dropped."
"What shall we say to these things?" Well, the obvious thing is that
it is not royalty, as the Fourth of July orators used to declaim, nor
the House of Lords, as the Hyde Park speakers are asserting, nor the
palaces of the bishops, as some of our non-conformist friends
believe; it is the "vested interests," which the new democracy must
blast out of church and state before the people can determine their
own destiny.
I suspect, if we were face to face, you with your sceptical spirit
would suggest that there is something else to be said, which is that
this quiet and intelligent-looking Mr. Buckthorne may have been
feeding me on the same diet I served to his sister. At any rate, if
not about the lesser immorality of his parson, at least about his
heinous crime of shooting partridges, sitting.
I do not deny that this is possible, and indeed, much as I should
wish to believe such a story, I am almost in hopes it is not true,
for, if you will read to the end of this long story--which must,
however, be left to my next--you will see why I have to-day a fellow
feeling for the wretch, which last night I should have thought
impossible!