to be regarded as the most important part; children are required to
remember the text, and it is as regular a thing for the English to
praise the discourse when they are going out of church, as it is to talk
of their health immediately before, and of the weather immediately
afterwards. The founders of the schism did not foresee the inconvenience
of always attaching this appendage to prayers and forms which the
Fathers of the church indited and enacted under the grace of the Holy
Spirit, and which even they had grace enough to leave uncorrupted,
though not unmutilated. To go through these forms and offer up these
petitions requires in the priest nothing more than the commonest
learning; it is, indeed, one of the manifold excellencies of the true
church, that the service can neither be made better nor worse by him who
performs it. But here, where a main part consists of composition merely
human, which is designed to edify and instruct the people, more
knowledge and more talents are necessary than it is reasonable to expect
in every priest, or indeed possible to find. You may suppose that this
inconvenience is easily remedied, that only those persons would be
licensed to preach whom the bishop had approved as well qualified, and
that all others would be enjoined to read the discourses of those
schismatical doctors whom their schismatical church had sanctioned.
Something like this was at first intended, and a book of homilies set
forth by authority. Happily these have become obsolete. I say happily,
because, having been composed in the first years of the schism, they
abound with calumnies against the faith. The people now expect original
composition from their priests, let their ability be what it may; it
would be regarded as a confession of incapacity to take a book into the
pulpit; and you may well suppose, if we in Spain have more preachers
than are good, what it must be in a country where every priest is one.
The sermon is read, not recited, nor delivered extemporaneously; which
is one main difference between the regular English clergy and the
sectarians. It has become a branch of trade to supply the priests with
discourses, and sermons may be bespoken upon any subject, at prices
proportioned to the degree of merit required, which is according to the
rank of the congregation to whom they are to be addressed. One clergyman
of Cambridge has assisted his weaker brethren, by publishing outlines
which they may fill up, and which he calls skeletons of sermons; another
of higher rank, to accommodate them still further, prints discourses at
full, in the written alphabet, so as to appear like manuscript to such
of the congregation as may chance to see them. The manuscripts of a
deceased clergyman are often advertised for sale, and it is usually
added to the notice, that they are warranted original; that is, that no
other copies have been sold, which might betray the secret. These
shifts, however, are not resorted to by the more respectable clergy; it
is not uncommon for these to enter into a commercial treaty with their
friends of the profession, and exchange their compositions. But even
with this reinforcement, the regular stock is usually but scanty; and if
the memory of the parishioners be good enough to last two years, or
perhaps half the time, they recognise their old acquaintance at their
regular return.
If, however, this custom be burthensome to one part of the clergy, they
who have enough talents to support more vanity fail not to profit by it,
and London is never without a certain number of popular preachers. I am
not now speaking of those who are popular among the sectarians, or
because they introduce sectarian doctrines into the church; but of that
specific character among the regular English clergy, which is here
denominated a popular preacher. You may well imagine, that, as the tree
is known by its fruits, I have not a Luis de Granada, nor an Antonio
Vieyra, to describe. Thread-bare garments of religious poverty, eyes
weakened by incessant tears of contrition, or of pious love, and cheeks
withered by fasting and penitence, would have few charms for that part
of the congregation for whom the popular preacher of London curls his
forelock, studies gestures at his looking-glass, takes lessons from some
stage-player in his chamber, and displays his white hand and white
handkerchief in the pulpit. The discourse is in character with the
orator; nothing to rouse a slumbering conscience, nothing to alarm the
soul at a sense of its danger, no difficulties expounded to confirm the
wavering, no mighty truths enforced to rejoice the faithful,—to look for
theology here would be[15] seeking pears from the elm;—only a little
smooth morality, such as Turk, Jew, or Infidel, may listen to without
offence, sparkling with metaphors and similes, and rounded off with a
text of scripture, a scrap of poetry, or, better than either, a
quotation from Ossian.—To have a clergy exempt from the frailties of
human nature is impossible; but the true church has effectually secured
hers from the vanities of the world: we may sometimes have to grieve,
because the wolf has put on the shepherd’s cloak, but never can have
need to blush at seeing the monkey in it.
Footnote 15:
Pedir peras al olmo.
These gentlemen have two ends in view, the main one is to make a fortune
by marriage,—one of the evils this of a married clergy. It was formerly
a doubt whether the red coat or the black one, the soldier or the
priest, had the best chance with the ladies; if on the one side there
was valour, there was learning on the other; but since volunteering has
made scarlet so common, black carries the day;—_cedunt arma togæ_. The
customs of England do not exclude the clergyman from any species of
amusement; the popular preacher is to be seen at the theatre, and at the
horse-race, bearing his part at the concert and the ball, making his
court to old ladies at the card-table, and to young ones at the
harpsichord: and in this way, if he does but steer clear of any flagrant
crime or irregularity, (which is not always the case; for this order, in
the heretical hierarchy, has had more than one Lucifer,) he generally
succeeds in finding some widow, or waning spinster, with weightier
charms than youth and beauty.
His other object is to obtain what is called a lectureship, in some
wealthy parish; that is, to preach an evening sermon on Sundays, at a
later hour than the regular service, for which the parishioners pay by
subscription. As this is an addition to the established service, at the
choice of the people, and supported by them at a voluntary expense, the
appointment is in their hands as a thing distinct from the cure; it is
decided by votes, and the election usually produces a contest, which is
carried on with the same ardour, and leaves behind it the same sort of
dissension among friends and neighbours, as a contested election for
parliament. But the height of the popular preacher’s ambition is to
obtain a chapel of his own, in which he rents out pews and single seats
by the year; and here he does not trust wholly to his own oratorical
accomplishments; he will have a finer-tuned organ than his neighbour,
singers better trained, double doors, and stoves of the newest
construction, to keep it comfortably warm. I met one of these
chapel-proprietors in company; self-complacency, good humour, and
habitual assentation to every body he met with, had wrinkled his face
into a perpetual smile. He said he had lately been expending all his
ready money in religious purposes; this he afterwards explained as
meaning that he had been fitting up his chapel; “and I shall think
myself very badly off,” he added, “if it does not bring me in fifty per
cent.”
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LETTER XX.
_Irreverence of the English towards the Virgin Mary and the Saints.—Want
of Ceremonies in their Church.—Festival Dainties.—Traces of
Catholicism in their Language and Oaths.—Disbelief of
Purgatory.—Fatal Consequences of this Error.—Supposed Advantages of
the Schism examined.—Clergy not so numerous as formerly._
The religion of the English approaches more nearly than I had supposed,
in its doctrines, to the true faith; so nearly indeed, in some
instances, that it would puzzle these heretics to explain the
difference, or to account for it where it exists. With respect to the
holiest sacrament, they admit that the body and blood of Christ is
verily and indeed taken, and yet they deny the real presence. They give
absolution regularly in their church service, upon a public and general
confession, which is equivalent to no confession at all. They accredit
the miracles of the first two or three centuries, and no others; as if
miracles were not just as well authenticated, and just as necessary, in
succeeding ages, or, as if it were possible to say. Thus far shalt thou
believe, and no further. They profess to believe in the communion of
saints, though in fact they believe not in the saints; and they say that
the Holy Catholic Church subsisted in the Waldenses and Albigenses, for
to these miserable wretches they trace the origin of the great schism.
It is as extraordinary as it is lamentable, to see how they have reduced
every thing to a mere _caput mortuum_.
One of the things which most indicates their blindness, is their total
want of all reverence for Mary, the most pure. Believing her to be
indeed the immaculate mother of God, they honour her with no festivals,
no service, not a single prayer; nor have they the slightest feeling of
adoration or love for a being so infinitely lovely and adorable. The
most obscure saint in the calendar has more respect in Spain, than is
shown here to the most holy Virgin! St Joseph is never mentioned, nor
thought of; they scarcely seem to know that such a person ever existed.
The Apostles are just so far noticed that no business is transacted at
the public offices upon their festivals, and this is all; no procession
is made, nobody goes to church; in fact, nobody remembers that the day
is a festival, except the clerks, who find it a holyday; for these words
are not synonymous in England. Holyday means nothing more here than a
day of cessation from business, and a school-boy’s vacation. The very
meaning of the word is forgotten.
Nothing can be conceived more cold and unimpassioned and uninteresting
than all the forms of this false Church. No vestments except the
surplice and the cassock, the one all white, the other all black, to
which the Bishops add nothing but lawn sleeves. Only a single altar, and
that almost naked, without one taper, and without the great and adorable
Mystery. Rarely a picture, no images, the few which the persecutors left
in the niches of the old cathedrals are mutilated; no lamps, no
crucifix, not even a cross to be seen. If it were not for the Creed and
the Ten Commandments which are usually written over the altar, one of
these heretical places of worship might as soon be taken for a mosque as
for a church. The service is equally bald; no genuflections, no
crossings, no incense, no elevation; and their music, when they have
any, is so monstrous, that it seems as if the Father of Heresy had
perverted their ears as well as their hearts.
The Church festivals, however, are not entirely unobserved; though the
English will not pray, they will eat; and, accordingly, they have
particular dainties for all the great holydays. On Shrove Tuesday they
eat what they call pancakes, which are a sort of wafer fried or made
smaller and thicker with currants or apples, in which case they are
called fritters. For Mid Lent Sunday they have huge plum-cakes, crusted
with sugar like snow; for Good Friday, hot bunns marked with a cross for
breakfast; the only relic of religion remaining among all their customs.
These bunns will keep for ever without becoming mouldy, by virtue of the
holy sign impressed upon them. I have also been credibly informed, that
in the province of Herefordshire a pious woman annually makes two upon
this day, the crumbs of which are a sovereign remedy for diarrhœa.
People come far and near for this precious medicine, which has never
been known to fail; yet even miracles produce no effect. On the feast of
St Michael the Archangel, every body must eat goose for dinner; and on
the Nativity, turkey, with what they call Christmas pies. They have the
cakes again on the festival of the Kings.
Some traces of Catholicism may occasionally be observed in their
language. Their words Christmas and Candlemas show that there was once a
time when they were in the right way. The five wounds are corrupted into
a passionate exclamation, of which, they who use it know not the awful
meaning. There is another instance so shocking as well as ridiculous
that I almost tremble to write it. The word for swine in this language
differs little in its pronunciation from the word _Pix_; it is well
known how infamous these people have at all times been for the practice
of swearing: they have retained an oath by this sacred vessel, and yet
so completely forgotten even the meaning of the word, that they say,
Please the Pigs, instead of the Pix. They also still preserve in their
oaths the names of some Pagan Divinities whom their fathers worshipped,
and of whom perhaps no other traces remain. The Deuce is one, the
Lord-Harry another: there is also the Living Jingo, Gor, and Goles. The
Pagan Goths had no such idols; so probably these were adored by the
Celtic inhabitants of the island.
With us every thing is calculated to remind us of religion. We cannot go
abroad without seeing some representation of Purgatory, some cross which
marks a station, an image of Mary the most pure, or a crucifix,—without
meeting priest, or monk, or friar, a brotherhood busy in their work of
charity, or the most holy Sacrament under its canopy borne to redeem and
sanctify the dying sinner. In your chamber the bells of the church or
convent reach your ear, or the voice of one begging alms for the souls,
or the chaunt of the priests in procession. Your babe’s first plaything
is his nurse’s rosary. The festivals of the Church cannot pass
unnoticed, because they regulate the economy of your table; and they
cannot be neglected without reproof from the confessor, who is as a
father to every individual in the family. There is nothing of all this
in England. The clergy here are as little distinguished from the laity
in their dress as in their lives; they are confined to black, indeed,
but with no distinction of make, and black is a fashionable colour; the
only difference is, that they wear no tail, though their heads are
ornamented with as much care as if they had never been exhorted to
renounce the vanities of the world. Here are no vespers to unite a whole
kingdom at one time in one feeling of devotion; if the bells are heard,
it is because bell-ringing is the popular music. As for Purgatory, it is
well known that all the heretics reject it: by some inconceivable
absurdity they believe that sin may deserve eternal punishment, and yet
cannot deserve any thing short thereof,—as if there were no degrees of
criminality. In like manner they deny all degrees of merit, confining
the benefit of every man’s good works to himself; confounding thus all
distinctions of piety; or, to speak more truly, denying that there is
any merit in good works; that is, that good works can be good; and thus
they take away all motive for goodness.
Oh how fatal is this error to the living and to the dead! An Englishman
has as little to do with religion in his death as in his life. No tapers
are lighted, no altar prepared, no sacrifice performed, no confession
made, no absolution given, no unction administered; the priest rarely
attends; it is sufficient to have the doctor and the nurse by the sick
bed; so the body be attended, the soul may shift for itself. Every thing
ends with the funeral; they think prayers for the dead of no avail: and
in this, alas! they are unwittingly right, for it is to be feared their
dead are in the place from whence there is no redemption.
All the ties which connect us with the World of Spirits are cut off by
this tremendous heresy. If prayers for the dead were of no further avail
than as the consolation of the living, their advantage would even then
he incalculable; for, what consolation can be equal to the belief that
we are by our own earnest expressions of piety alleviating the
sufferings of our departed friends, and accelerating the commencement of
their eternal happiness! Such a belief rouses us from the languor of
sorrow to the performance of this active duty, the performance of which
brings with it its own reward: we know that they for whom we mourn and
intercede are sensible of these proofs of love, and that from every
separate prayer thus directed they derive more real and inestimable
benefit, than any services, however essential, could possibly impart to
the living. And what a motive is this for us to train up our children in
the ways of righteousness, that they in their turn may intercede for us
when we stand most in need of intercession! Alas! the accursed Luther
and his accomplices seem to have barred up every avenue to Heaven.
They, however, boast of the advantages obtained by the Schism, which
they think proper to call the Reformation. The three points on which
they especially congratulate themselves are, the privilege of having the
Scriptures in their own tongue; of the cup for the congregation, and of
the marriage of the clergy. As for the first, it is altogether
imaginary: the church does not prohibit its members from translating the
Bible, it only enjoins that they translate from the approved version of
the Vulgate, lest any errors should creep in from ignorance of the
sacred language, or misconception, or misrepresentation; and the wisdom
of this injunction has been sufficiently evinced. The privilege of the
cup might be thought of little importance to a people who think so
lightly of the Eucharist; but as they have preserved so few sacraments,
they are right to make the most of what they have. The marriage of the
clergy has the effect of introducing poverty among them, and rendering
it, instead of a voluntary virtue, the punishment of an heretical
custom. Most of the inferior clergy are miserably poor: nothing, indeed,
can be conceived more deplorable than the situation of those among them
who have large families. They are debarred by their profession from
adding to their scanty stipends by any kind of labour; and the people,
knowing nothing of religious poverty, regard poverty at all times more
as a crime than a misfortune, and would despise an apostle if he came to
them in rags.
During the last generation, it was the ambition of those persons in the
lower ranks of society who were just above the peasantry, to make one of
their sons a clergyman, if they fancied he had a talent for learning.
But times have changed, and the situation of a clergyman who has no
family interest is too unpromising to be any longer an object of envy.
They who would have adventured in the church formerly, now become
commercial adventurers: in consequence, commerce is now far more
overstocked with adventurers than ever the church has been, and men are
starving as clerks instead of as curates. I have heard that the master
of one of the free grammar-schools, who, twenty years ago, used to be
seeking what they call curacies for his scholars, and had always many
more expectants than he could supply with churches, has now applications
for five curates, and cannot find one to accept the situation. On the
contrary, a person in this great city advertised lately for a clerk; the
salary was by no means large, nor was the situation in other respects
particularly desirable, yet he had no fewer than ninety applicants.
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LETTER XXI.
_Show of Tulips.—Florists.—Passion for Rarities in England.—Queen Anne’s
Farthings.—Male Tortoise-shell Cat.—Collectors.—The King of
Collectors._
Yesterday I went to see a show of tulips, as it is called, about three
miles from town. The bed in which they were arranged, each in its
separate pot, was not less than fifty _varas_ in length, covered with a
linen awning the whole way, and with linen curtains at the sides, to be
let down if the wind should be violent, or the rain beat in. The first
sight of this long gallery of flowers was singular and striking; and
faint as the odour of the tulip is, the many thousands which were here
collected together, formed a very perceptible and sweet fragrance. The
few persons present were brother florists, or amateurs of the science,
and the exhibitor himself was a character quite new to me. Never before
had I seen such perfect and complete enjoyment as this man took in his
tulips; he did not seem to have a single wish, or thought, or idea
beyond them; his whole business from one end of the year to the other
was to nurse them up, and here they were in full bloom and beauty. The
price of one, he told us, was twenty guineas, another only ten; some
were forty, fifty, as high as a hundred; there was one on which no price
could be set,—he did not know its value,—indeed it was invaluable. We
saw Julius Cæsar, and the Great Mogul, and Bonaparte, and St George, and
the Duke of Marlborough. “This,” said he, “is poor Louis XVI.;—here’s
Pompey;—that’s Washington; he’s a grand fellow!” and he looked up in our
faces with a feeling so simple, and so serious, that it was evident his
praise was solely designed for the flower. I ventured to admire one,
and, as you may suppose, only betrayed my ignorance; it was a vulgar
flower, and had no name; they told me it was _streaky_, by which term
they meant that it was veined with colours which spread into the white
part of the leaf, and faded away;—the very thing for which I had admired
it. It seems, the perfection of a tulip consists in its form; the lips
of the cup should just incline inwards, and just be tipt with a colour
which does not diffuse itself. When I knew their standard of perfection,
I began to see with the eyes of a connoisseur, and certainly discovered
beauties which would never have been perceptible to me in my state of
ignorance.
He and his man, he told us, sat up alternately to watch the garden; yet,
notwithstanding their vigilance, some thieves had got in a few nights
before:—“The fools!” said he, “they took about fifty yards of the cloth
before they were disturbed, but never touched one of the tulips.” His
man appeared to be as devoutly attached to the pursuit as himself. I
never saw such complete happiness, as both these men felt in beholding
the perfections of their year’s labour, such sober and deep delight as
was manifest in every word and gesture.—Never let me be told again that
the pursuit of happiness is vain.
The tulip mania of the Dutch never raged in England, whatever you might
imagine from this specimen; yet I have heard of one old gentleman who
never was half a dozen leagues from his birth-place during his whole
life, except once, when he went to Holland to purchase roots. There may
be amateurs enough to make it not an expensive pursuit for the florist;
and perhaps the number of persons, who, like us, give a shilling to see
the exhibition, may be sufficient to pay for the awning; but I should
think it can never be pursued for profit. The carnation, the ranunculus,
and the auricula, have each their devotees, who have meetings to exhibit
their choice specimens, and prizes for the most beautiful. These bring
those flowers to a wonderful perfection, yet this perfection is less
wonderful than the pains by which it is procured. Akin to the florists
are the Columbarians or pigeon-fanciers, and the butterfly-breeders or
Aurelians.—Even as any thing may become the object of superstition, an
onion or a crocodile, an ape or an ape’s tooth, so also any thing does
for a pursuit; and all that is to be regretted is, that the ordinary
pursuits of mankind are not as innocent as that of these experimental
Minorites or Minims.