(1877.)
Walking along the Strand and Fleet Street and through the heart of the
City, noting the churches on the way—high St. Martin’s, St.
Mary-le-Strand, St. Clement Danes, the Cathedral, and the many still
left wedged in by offices in the narrowest and busiest streets, or lanes
of London—I am always reminded of the old wooden ships laid up “in
ordinary,” as one sees them at Plymouth and Portsmouth, and elsewhere.
The churches, like the ships, though not so surely, may have done good
service in their time; but their day is past, never to return. When we
reflect on the subject, however, we find manifold differences between
the state of the churches and that of the ships. These are dismantled,
unrigged and dismasted, passive white hulls ghostly on the waters, as it
were the phantoms of the old swift-winged and thunder-striking eagles of
battle. But the churches remain in all their pride, complete in
equipment from lowest vault to topmost spire, even those which are shut
silent all the week, without the least pretence of use, and in which on
Sunday the droning and drowsy worship of a meagre congregation “rattles
like a withered kernel in a large shell.” Again, the crews of the ships
were discharged as soon as these were put out of commission, while the
full crews of the churches, rectors, vicars, ushers, beadles, are kept
on at full pay, and saunter through the old exercises and parades as if
they were valiant effectives instead of dummies and shams. And this
death-in-life of the churches is more dreary and doleful than the naked
death of the ships.
These churches officially and effetely represent what is called the
English Reformation, the most ignoble in Europe; which, as Macaulay
remarks, merely transferred the full cup from the hand of the Pope to
the hand of the King, spilling as little,as possible by the way. It is
true that the State Church thus established, in spite of its illogical
position, boasted great men in its early days, inspired by patriotism as
against Rome, with abounding faith for the mysteries, with firm belief
in the Bible, with full confidence in metaphysical divinity. But now
Rome is formidable no longer, the mysteries are seen to be not only
incomprehensible but self-contradictory, the Bible has been torn asunder
by criticism, metaphysical divinity has been proved baseless; all the
best thought of the age abandons the Church and disregards its dogmas;
it has great men no more, nor ever again will have. Its general
character is well hit off by Ruskin, himself a devoted Christian, in the
phrase “the smooth proprieties of lowland Protestantism.”’ It may be
worth while to quote a little more from him on this subject (“Modern
Painters,” part v., chap. 20, “The Mountain Glory”)—“But still the large
aspect of the matter is always, among Protestants, that formalism,
respectability, orthodoxy, caution and propriety, live by the slow
stream that encircles the lowland abbey or cathedral; and that
enthusiasm, poverty, vital faith and audacity of conduct, characterise
the pastor dwelling by the torrent side.” And again: “Among the fair
arable lands of England and Belgium extends an orthodox Protestantism or
Catholicism—prosperous, creditable and drowsy; but it is among the
purple moors of the highland border, the ravines of Mount Genévre, and
the crags of the Tyrol, that we shall find the simplest evangelical
faith and the purest Romanist practice.” In other words, in religion the
highlander is enthusiastic and superstitious, the low-lander lukewarm
and worldly. Thus our fat English Church still keeps to the text, “By
grace ye are saved;” but its grace now is chiefly of deportment. It
boasts that its clergy are gentlemen; and they may be, as a rule, in
society, though we unbelievers seldom find them so in controversy; and
it seems to be persuaded that we should continue to allow it several
million pounds a year to keep up this supply of gentlemen, when every
profession, every trade shows gentlemen quite as good, with the
advantages of more intellect, more experience of life, more courage and
more sincerity.
There is indeed a section of the clergy full of zeal—to restore the
priesthood. How some of these gentlemen compound with their consciences
in taking English pay and position for doing Romish work, is a standing
puzzle to honest laymen untrained in casuistry. But as they do rank
themselves among the parsons of our State Church, their ecclesiastical
pretensions are even more ludicrous than they are outrageously arrogant.
For ever preaching up the authority and discipline of the Church, they
are the first to rebel against it when it does not suit their whims.
Thus Mr. Tooth, of Hatcham, not only defies an Act of Parliament, but
also defies his bishop, and has plenty of abettors in doing both. I read
in the _Daily News_: “Two of Mr. Tooth’s supporters, whose letters we
have published, insist that the Public Worship Regulation Act is not law
and is not binding on Churchmen, because it has never received the
sanction of Convocation”—the said Convocation having about as much
influence and authority in the country as a tavern discussion society.
Again: “One writer talks of the Church having been declared to be free
from all civil jurisdiction in spiritual affairs by many successive
Sovereigns. We did not know that our Sovereigns had a right to make laws
by Royal declarations, [and] not merely for their own time, but for all
time. According to these principles of constitutional government we have
three rival law-making powers in England—the Parliament, with the
Sovereign for one; the Declaration of the Sovereign for another; and
Convocation for a third. Of these Parliament would seem to be the
weakest, for it cannot negative the proceedings of the other two; but
either of these two can declare invalid what it has done.” Can anything
be more absurd? Here is a State Church established by Parliament with
the sanction of the monarch, endowed with national endowments, liable to
be disestablished and disendowed by Parliament with the sanction of the
monarch; yet many of its ministers claim to be free from the authority
of the State and Parliament to which it owes its existence and
subsistence! If they really desire such freedom, they can easily obtain
it. They have but to sever their adulterous connexion with the State,
restoring to the nation the endowments they have so long misused, and
they will then be emancipated from all control, at liberty to teach what
doctrines and practise what ritual they please. But these
super-spiritual clergy keep a desperate clutch on the revenues. If
anything could be more absurd than the defiance of Parliament, it would
be the defiance of their ecclesiastical superiors by these champions of
absolute ecclesiastical subordination. His bishop inhibits Mr. Tooth,
Mr. Tooth coolly disregards the inhibition, and one who sympathises with
him calmly writes to the _Daily News_? “Considering how bishops have
been appointed since the Reformation, it is hard to see why Mr. Tooth
and your correspondents should even pretend to obey them.” This is
frightful, and may well make even the hardened sceptic shudder. What! a
genuine successor of the Apostles (else the English Church has no
genuine priesthood) chosen by the Holy Ghost itself (in obedience to the
recommendation of the King or Queen) against his own humble wish (for he
declared _Nolo Episcopari_); and English Churchmen need not even pretend
to obey him! Such is the subordination of those who maintain the extreme
authority of the Church!
Jesus has told us that a house divided against itself cannot stand, and
the house of our State Church is divided against itself most savagely.
But as the factions, while opposed to each other in all else, thoroughly
agree in adhering to their endowments and privileges, and with this
object shore up and buttress the edifice whose fall would be otherwise
imminent, it behoves us to exert ourselves in bringing to the ground as
speedily as possible the unsure and dangerous building, and diverting
the immense funds misemployed in sustaining its uselessness to the real
edification of the people. For as materially the Church of St. Mary is
planted silent, void and death-like in the midst of the living currents
of the Strand, obstructing and breaking the broad stream into two narrow
arms, so intellectually and morally, in whatever channel our active life
may flow, we find a similar obstacle, and in all directions we meet one
cry—“The Church stops the way.”
But when we have removed the obstacle, when we have blasted it as the
Americans recently blasted that other rock of Hell-gate, clearing the
entrance to New York’s noble harbor, we shall find another and a more
inveterate obstacle fronting us—a Book. A book seems but a slight thing
to bar the way; but multiplied by millions and millions, and desperately
defended as divine and infallible by legions of zealots, it constitutes
a far more formidable barricade than the stoutest church of stone. The
various sects of Nonconformists, who all join with us in attacking the
State Church, will all join the Churchmen to maintain against us their
common fetish, the Bible. Regarding this as a human production, there is
much of it which we highly esteem; but regarded as the word of God, it
works far more evil than good, and the evil is ever increasing while the
good decreases; for the revelations of science grow ever more clear, and
men must more and more strain their consciences and sophisticate their
intellects in order to believe that they believe in the super-human
character of the book which reason and science show to be so thoroughly
human. We are told by men whom we respect that, considered historically,
Christianity and the other great religions merit better treatment than
we are wont to accord them. Certainly they merit better treatment than
is accorded them by those who crudely brand them all alike, in all their
doctrines and legends and ritual, as the mere inventions of priestcraft
fostered by kingcraft and statecraft. But we are far from committing
ourselves to such an impeachment, not less monstrous than the most
monstrous superstition it assails. We freely recognise the naturalness
of these religions in the past, their genuine consonance with the
communities wherein they arose and prevailed; the sincerity and truth
and nobleness formulated, however erroneously, in many of their dogmas,
embodied, however imperfectly, in many of their myths; but we see that
their day is gone by; we cannot allow the past, which was the real
childhood and youth of mankind, to dominate the present, which is its
riper age; we discern that the errors of the dogmas and the fiction of
the myths are now so obvious and incontestable that to revere them as
faultless and authentic is a gross self-delusion. When we say—“The tree
is dead; cut it down, why cumbereth it the ground?” we do not imply that
it never bore good fruit. On the other hand, when we admit that it once
bore good fruit, we do not imply that it is not now dead and an
encumbrance to the ground. It is precisely because we do consider these
old faiths historically, because we fully recognise their early
efficiency and vigor, that we can thoroughly realise their decrepitude
and dissolution. And taking western Christianity in particular, both the
Roman embodied in Mary and the Protestant embodied in Jesus, we affirm
that it has no longer real life, but only the “ghastly affectation of
life.” Reason and science have disembowelled it, have removed its heart
and its brain. It is ready for the historical embalmer. Its great part
in the drama of human life is played out; it is still kept above ground,
its life still asserted, because large numbers would lose much by the
frank acknowledgement of its decease, and other large numbers who cannot
bring themselves to face the fact of its death, persist in hoping
against hope that the lifelessness is hut a swoon or a cataleptic fit,
from which it will yet awaken with renewed strength. We, however, dare
to see what we cannot help seeing, we venture to avow the fact which is
beyond fair dispute. Doubtless the living man did brave work in his
time; but shall we therefore bow down worshipping his mummy, and keep it
from its sepulchre, and continue to allot immense revenues to his army
of servitors who have now no service to render? No; the sooner we bury
the corpse and send the servitors about their business the better for us
and for them.
Thus far I think all Secularists will go with me. But for many, perhaps
the majority of us, who are not only Secularists, but Republicans, there
is a third great obstacle, the Throne, which is now little else than a
costly sham. Yet, sham as it is, it is still strong to obstruct, being
encompassed and fortified by the power of the nobles, the power of the
clergy, the power of the wealthy, the degraded and degrading
snobbishness of the middle and lower middle classes. The artisans and
laborers generally, as we know, care nothing for it or are distinctly
hostile. We have had some great monarchs, though the greatest we ever
had was crown-less, and we can yield to monarchy in the past something
of such historical respect as we yield to Christianity. But who that is
not a very serf by nature can feel any genuine respect for monarchy as
we have it in these days? when the main duty of the King or Queen is to
countersign the decrees of Parliament; a duty which the Lord Chancellor
or the Speaker could perform just as well and with more promptitude. One
need not dwell on the character of the reigning house, which, brought
ignobly to the throne, has been consistently ignoble from the first
until the accession of her present Most Gracious Majesty. A much nobler
royal family would be just as superfluous now as the present we have
outgrown the need of a paternal or guardian king. Nor is the question of
principle really affected by the fact that this ignoble family, like
other species of the lower animals, is excessively prolific, and that
every prince or princess born of it, costs us several thousands a year.
We should not grudge the money for service rendered; the gravamen of our
impeachment is that no monarch now can render service of value. The
effective energy of our monarchy in these days is well symbolised in the
procedure at the opening of Parliament—royal carriages without royal
occupants; royal life-guards with no royal life to guard; a royal robe
spread on a vacant throne; the Lord Chancellor reading a royal speech
composed by responsible ministers. Her Majesty during fourteen long
years has been doing her best to teach us how well we can get on without
a monarch, and how stupid we are therefore to keep one at a great
expense. We may find something venerable in the throne when put aside
and conserved simply as a curious relic of the past; we find it merely
absurd while retained for useless use, a pretentious seat with no one to
sit in it. As Théophile says: “_Si rien nest plus beau que l’antique,
est plus laid que le suranné._”