I prefaced my repetition of passages in the career of the Reverend
Herbert Gilliman with an expression of my belief that he was the
only cleric in Broadminster who suggested to me one of the slightly
shop-soiled clergymen in Anthony Trollope's Barchester novels. Of the
ladies of the Close or the ladies of the Palace I have never heard of
one who, in the remotest degree, suggested a relationship with Mrs.
Proudie.
I have heard, however, of the recent appearance of a lady, who is said
to have an intimate acquaintance with the Greek language, at the weekly
meeting of the Bible class, presided over by the Dean, who, it is said,
has also got some knowledge of the same tongue. The Minster Bible class
is one of the most exclusive of lady's clubs. It is understood that no
one is eligible for membership who has not been presented at Court--at
least so some one, who was not a member, affirmed. Another defined it as
a sort of religious Almack's; but it was a man, and a clergyman into the
bargain, who said it was an attempt to run an eighteenth-century French
salon on Church of England lines.
Without resembling Mrs. Proudie in even the most distant way, the lady
of whom I have heard has succeeded, I am told, in changing the whole
character of the Bible class--all through her knowledge of Greek.
Without being in any way insolent or even self-assertive, she has, I
think I am right in stating, openly differed from the interpretation
put upon certain passages by the Dean himself; and no human being in
Broadminster is recorded to have differed from the Dean on any point
whatsoever. But she was a stranger and apparently unacquainted with the
best traditions of the town; and, moreover, it was the Dean himself
who invited her to join the Bible class. And when she suggests quite
a different interpretation of a text from that advanced by the Dean,
referring him to certain of the newest “readings” as her authority, he
does not seem to be in the least irritated; indeed, on one occasion,
when the question arose as to the exact shade of St. Paul's meaning when
he made use of the particle _ôi_, the Dean was understood to say that he
thought the lady's suggestion well worthy of consideration.
All the higher orders of the clerical establishment--those who are, so
to speak, “on the strength” of the Chapter--those to whom the great
Lord Shaftesbury would have given, without the reservation of a single
finger, his whole hand to shake--are not, however, so meek as Mr. Dean,
and it is whispered that two or three of them have recently been keeping
the Bible class at a distance, while others, in view of being called
on to preside at one of its meetings, have been seen searching on their
bookshelves for Liddell and Scott and blowing the dust off the edges.
All the old members of the class are declaring, however, that in future
they will make complete ignorance of Greek an essential to membership.
The very existence of a Bible class assumes ignorance, and no one has
any business to belong to it who is capable of differing from the Dean,
or, at least, who is sufficiently tactless to express such a divergence
of opinion even though she may be sure of her ground.
Such a show of feeling in this matter goes far to assure Broadminster
that there is no chance of Mrs. Proudie being tolerated in the diocese.
When I was walking down the principal street of Broadminster--the street
on which the leading silversmith and the leading draper have their
premises--there went past a very high carriage. I hesitate to refer
to it as “well appointed,” this chapter not being one of a novel, and,
besides, I do not quite know what is meant by a well-appointed carriage;
but the vehicle to which I refer was high, its horses were well matched
and good steppers, and the coachman and footman were also a match pair.
The young person with whom I was walking bowed to the occupants of the
carriage--a young cleric and an extremely goodlooking and well-dressed
lady.
“Nice looking people,” I ventured to remark. “You know them, it would
appear.”
“Know them? I should think I do know them: he is our curate,” replied my
companion, who was, I may mention, the daughter of a clergyman.
“The Church is looking up when curates sit behind high-stepping bays,”
said I.
“He is the best curate we ever had,” said she. “He is the most obliging
man ever known. He never grumbles at having to take both services some
Sundays and to preach as well--a splendid preacher, too--never longer
than a quarter of an hour.”
“Anything else?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she said slowly and with something of awe in her voice. “He is a
one bisquer at croquet!”
I tried to catch sight of the carriage and its bays, but it must have
been a mile away by this time.
“And he does all that out of the hundred and fifty pounds a year your
father pays him?”
“He does indeed, eked out by the five thousand a year his father left
him: his father was Sir Edmund Bonnewell, the great contractor. You have
heard of him?”