Let me in a last clause attempt a sketch of the history of the Manx
Church in the century or more that has followed Bishop Wilson's death.
The last fifty years of it are featureless, save for an attempt to
abolish the Bishopric. This foolish effort first succeeded and then
failed, and was a poor bit of mummery altogether, ending in nothing
but waste of money and time, and breath and temper. The fifty years
immediately succeeding Bishop Wilson were full of activity. But so far
as the Church was concerned, the activity was not always wholesome. If
religion was kept alive in Man in those evil days, and the soul hunger
of the poor Manx people was satisfied, it was not by the masters of the
Manx Church, the Pharisees who gave alms in the streets to the sound
of a trumpet going before them, or by the Levites who passed by on
the other side when a man had fallen among thieves. It was partly by
dissent, which was begun by Wesley in 1775 (after Quakerism had been
suppressed), and partly by a small minority of the Manx clergy, who kept
going the early evangelicalism of Newton and Cowper and Cecil--dear,
sunny, simple-hearted old Manx vicars, who took sweet counsel together
in their old-fashioned homes, where you found grace in all senses of the
word, purity of soul, the life of the mind, and gentle courtliness of
manners.
Bishop Wilson's successor was Doctor Mark Hildlesley, in all respects
a worthy man. He completed the translation of the Scriptures into Manx,
which had been begun by his predecessor, and established Sunday-schools
in Man before they had been commenced in any other country. But after
him came a line of worthless prelates, Dr. Richmond, remembered for his
unbending haughtiness; Dr. Mason, disgraced by his debts; and Claudius
Cregan, a bishop unfit to be a curate. Do you not read between the
broad lines of such facts? The Athol dynasty was now some thirty years
established in Man, and the swashbuckler Court of fine gentlemen was
in full swing. In that costume drama of soiled lace and uproarious
pleasures, what part did the Church play? Was it that of the man clad
in camel's skin, living on locusts and wild honey, and calling on the
generation of revellers to flee from the wrath to come? No; but that
of the lover of cakes and ale. The records of this period are few and
scanty, but they are full enough to show that some of the clergy of the
Athols knew more of backgammon than of theology. While they pandered to
the dissolute Court they lived under, going the errands of their masters
in the State, fetching and carrying for them, and licking their shoes,
they tyrannised over the poor ignorant Manx people and fleeced them
unmercifully. Perhaps this was in a way only natural. Corruption was in
the air throughout Europe. Dr. Youngs were grovelling for preferments
at the feet of kings' mistresses, and Dr. Warners were kissing the
shoebuckles of great ladies for sheer love of their faces, plastered red
and white, The parasites of the Manx clergy were not far behind some
of their English brethren. There is a story told of their life among
themselves which casts lurid light on their character and ways of life.
It is said that two of the Vicars-general summoned a large number of the
Manx people to Bishop's Court on some business of the spiritual court,
Many of the people had come long distances, chiefly a-foot, without
food, and probably without money. After a short sitting the court was
adjourned for dinner. The people had no dinner, and they starved. The
Vicars-general went into the palace to dine with the Bishop. Some hours
passed. The night was gathering. Then a message came out to say that no
more business could be done that day. Some of the poor people were old,
and had to travel fifteen miles to their homes. The record tells us that
the Bishop gave his guests "most excellent wine." What of a scene like
that? Outside, a sharp day in Spring, two score famished folks tramping
the glen and the gravel-path, the gravel-path and the glen, to and
fro, to and fro, minute after minute, hour after hour. Inside, my
lord Bishop, drenched in debt, dining with his clergy, drinking
"most excellent wine" with them, unbending his mighty mind with them,
exchanging boisterous stories with them, jesting with them, laughing
with them, until his face grows as red as the glowing turf on his
hearth. Presently a footfall on the gravel, and outside the window a
hungry, pinched, anxious face looking nervously into the room. Then this
colloquy:
"Ah, the court, plague on't, I'd forgotten it."
"Adjourn it, gentlemen."
"Wine like yours, my lord, would make a man forget Paradise."
"Sit down again, gentlemen. Juan, go out and tell the people to come
back to-morrow."
"Your right good health, my lord!"
"And yours, gentlemen both!"
Oh, if there is any truth in religion, if this world is God's, if a day
is coming when the weak shall be exalted and the mighty laid low, what
a reckoning they have gone to whose people cried for bread and they gave
them a stone! And if there is not, if the hope is vain, if it is all a
sham and a mockery, still the justice of this world is sure. Where are
they now, these parasites? Their game is played out. They are bones and
ashes; they are in their forgotten graves.