towards his _Alma Mater_, the Anglican Church, in seeking to defend
her, or prove that she only had the sole monopoly of the salvation of
souls. Being no great theologian, but endowed with a simple soul and
decidedly middling abilities, he contented himself with preaching to
his flock the old story, as he was pleased to call the doctrine of
Christ.
His sermons were very mediocre productions of the mind, in spite of
the time he spent over their manufacture; and when his wife would pity
him for all the labour they cost him, he would answer with a sigh: "My
dear, it is true my sermons do take up a good deal of my time, but it
is those who are obliged to listen to them that you should pity, and
not me."
This excellent man had his hobby, as indeed every Englishman has,
especially if he be a bit of a theologian; he firmly believed that the
English nation was none other than the ten tribes of Israel, who
disappeared after the destruction of Jerusalem. The matter formed a
never-ending subject of discussion for him, and when he chanced to
come across a good soul ready to listen to him, he grew animated and
almost eloquent over his theme. The idea was ever present with him,
and if he retired to rest at night, beside his virtuous spouse,
without having discovered some new proof of the identity of the House
of Israel with the British nation, he would exclaim with Titus, "I
have lost a day."
Of all the domestic animals that drew breath about the vicarage there
was not one more docile and useful, in the eyes of Mrs. Bartholomew
Goodman, than the reverend gentleman, her husband.
The worthy lady had taken the management of the parish into her own
hands. In her estimation, her husband was a good, well-meaning vicar,
incapable of anything beyond the writing of his sermons. As these
sermons were dull enough to send one to sleep standing up, and it was
usual to listen to them in a sitting posture, their chance of doing
good was but small. Besides, added Mrs. Goodman to herself, sermons
never converted anybody yet. The blackest sinner does not recognise
his own portrait in the descriptions of the lost that fall from the
preacher's lips. No, when the sermon is over, each hearer goes away
very well satisfied with himself, simply reflecting on his homeward
way: "Poor Smith! or poor Brown! how straight the vicar preached at
him this morning!" It is always to one's neighbour that the satires of
the stage or the diatribes of the pulpit apply, and that is why no one
thinks of getting angry at church or in the theatre.
To produce any effect upon the sinner, you must adopt arguments _ad
hominem_; you must beard the animal in his den. This _rôle_ of
champion of the Church militant Mrs. Goodman had marked out for
herself. Satan never found himself confronted with a more formidable
enemy.
Mrs. Goodman, it should be explained, seemed to be built for battle:
six feet high, alert and thin as a greyhound, with little piercing
eyes, a complete and formidable-looking cage of teeth, an aquiline
nose, curving boldly downward towards a long flat chin that it seemed
to threaten one day to join; everything about this soldier of the
faith denoted a resolution equal to the most arduous undertaking, a
resolution that neither rebuffs, ridicule, nor danger could shake.
At the voice of his wife, the good vicar was wont to tremble with
respect and apprehension.
In England, where wives are so docile, so respectful and submissive to
their husbands, the wife of the clergyman seems to be an exception to
the rule. It is easy to understand why. It is always more or less the
garb that makes the monk. For us, the priest means the black cassock
and the white surplice, that is to say austerity and innocence.
Whether it be prejudice or not, it seems difficult to reconcile the
idea of a priest's life with that of a husband, even the most saintly
husband on earth. You may call your wife your chaste spouse as much as
you like, it will always mean that she is chaste towards others, that
she is faithful to you; but after all, how shall I explain myself?
Well ... I never heard that the children of the clergy fall from the
moon into their mother's arms: that is all I can say.
I never could understand that curious being, a married priest. I mean
the veritable priest by vocation, the pastor of souls, the evangelist.
We are not treating here of those clergymen who are _savants_,
professors, writers, perfect gentlemen indeed, thorough men of the
world, taking the expression in its best sense; still less are we
treating of those clergymen who enter Holy Orders because it gives a
good standing in life, and increases their chance of making a rich
marriage, and who do not turn Mahometans, because the Mahometan faith
is not fashionable in England, and would open up to a man no lucrative
career.
The evangelical parson, who would be horrified at the idea of taking
his glass of whisky without first having said grace over it, and who,
in our opinion, can scarcely fail to accord to the bliss of matrimony
less anticipated gratitude than he bestows on his glass of grog;[9]
this man must appear strange indeed, incomprehensible to a woman who
is witness of all his little failings--taking for granted that he has
no defects, and of course no vices--to a woman, that little Argus-eyed
observer, who is, I say, witness of a thousand actions which prove to
her that this priest is only a man ... like other men. For us, on the
contrary, a priest is not like other men; scarcely is he a man in our
eyes. No, I cannot realise the idea; it is beyond my conception. The
slit-up surplice that I dare not name, for, in shape, it is the most
ridiculous-looking garment of a man's wardrobe.... No, no! in the
bedroom, this oracle and his wife must certainly be unable to keep
their countenance.
[9] See Appendix (c).
This is not all.
The wife of a Protestant minister has a thousand and one occupations
which render her important, and these occupations are more manly than
those of her husband: she puts his theories into practice. He makes
sermons and collections; she distributes alms, visits the sick,
organises associations, _fêtes_, bazaars, concerts, lectures,
tea-parties at a shilling a head; she is the dispenser of all the
favours of the vicarage.
Now, place woman on a footing of equality with man, and her natural
instinct will soon place her on a pedestal from which she will
exercise authority overbearingly. I say _overbearingly_, for woman
being born to be protected, when she takes the upper hand, does so
like a _parvenue_; that is, fussily, indiscreetly.
This natural instinct Mrs. Goodman possessed in the highest degree;
her husband could have given evidence upon the point.
The vicar's wife had other reasons for believing herself superior to
her husband. She was of aristocratic origin, and pretended to be
descended from the Irish kings. For that matter, we may take the
opportunity of remarking that we have not yet met with any Irish
people that were not descended, in a straight line, from the ancient
kings of Ireland. If we were to believe the excellent Hibernians, our
Louis XII. never half so well earned the title of _Father of the
People_ as these old monarchs of Erin. The exploits of Hercules are
mere child's play by the side of the _tours de force_ of those lusty
Celts.
Proud of her ancestors, Mrs. Goodman often reminded the poor pastor of
his obscure birth. "I ought to be the wife of a bishop," she would
sometimes say to him, when he did not seem sufficiently lost in
admiration before her. "Alas, would that you were, my dear!" thought
the worthy man. And as he was good-natured and had no reason for
wishing harm to the chief of his diocese, the wish died on his lips
and was almost inaudible.
We believe we have said enough to prove that the Rev. Bartholomew
Goodman found his purgatory in this world, which must have been, for
his Christian soul, a great consolation and even a source of joy,
since the Protestant religion does not admit of the existence of this
place of purification in the next.
II.
One morning in the spring of the year 188... Mr. Goodman, vicar of the
parish of All Angels, sat in his study writing his two sermons for the
following Sunday.
As we have said elsewhere, sermons are read from the pulpit in
England; at least, this is the practice of Anglican clergymen, and we
have explained the reason why.
Now, as for centuries past, the hundreds of religious reviews,
magazines, and newspapers, have been publishing sermons, when a
clergyman has a rather limited allowance of imagination, these
periodicals furnish him with the materials for edifying the faithful
on Sundays; he has but to copy old sermons. For proof of this, you
need only take a peep at the great reading-room of the British Museum
any Saturday of the year. Every seat is monopolised by the ministers
of the hundred and odd religious sects who have set themselves the
task of wiping out from the registers of the next world the thousand
and one little stains that John Bull has contracted in this. It is a
sight worth looking at to see them poring over old dusty volumes, from
which is to be extracted the balm that is to give fresh life to the
flocks confided to their care. While listening to the scratching of
these hundreds of quills as they flew over the paper I have sometimes
said to myself: "Some folks earn their salaries easily." And yet the
public good should be the first consideration, and, after all, I do
not know that there is any harm about copying a sermon. On the
contrary, why not follow the advice that Voltaire gives in the
_Dictionnaire Philosophique_, at the chapter of Eloquence? This is
what he says after having spoken of Massillon: "Such masterpieces are
very rare; besides, everything has become common-place. Those
preachers who cannot imitate these great models would do well to learn
them by heart, and (supposing they have that rare gift, a talent for
declamation) recite them to their congregation, piece by piece,
instead of holding forth in a wearisome manner upon themes as stale as
uninstructive."
The regular Saturday visitors of the British Museum are quite of the
same opinion, only, as to commit to memory two sermons a week, and
sometimes more, would take up too much of the precious time that they
owe to the spiritual family that have to be fed with the Word of Life,
they copy them off, and read instead of reciting them: it is an
economy of labour.
"Whenever I wish to move my hearers," said a worthy parish priest one
day, "I repeat some Massillon to them."
But the fact is that pulpit eloquence is not much encouraged in
England. A really eloquent preacher would approach too nearly to the
actor to please a people so susceptible in religious matters. He would
not inspire confidence. The Englishman likes dogma before all things;
torrents of eloquence, _à la Bossuet_, would make him look askance at
the preacher; phrases polished and studied like those of Flechier,
expressions elegant and graceful, like those of Massillon, would
awaken suspicions in his mind; what he prefers is argument pure and
simple, and leaves to the lower orders the pleasure of being terrified
by revivalists.
We were speaking of English pulpit eloquence one day to an important
member of the political world. "English pulpit eloquence!" said he to
me, "we have none."
----"Yet, I heard Canon X. preach in the Abbey the other day," I said,
"and I assure you I never heard anything more graceful; he fascinated
me. He is an eloquent preacher at all events."
----"Yes," replied he, "Canon X. is a very good speaker, it is true
... but, my dear sir, if he could only hold his tongue, he would be a
bishop."
The canon in question has just been made a bishop after all; but only
a colonial bishop at the antipodes. If our English readers recognise
him, I offer them the _primeur_ of the anecdote.
* * * * *
Our good Vicar had just copied out his morning sermon; but as he
wanted, in the evening, to thunder from the pulpit against romanism,
ritualism, methodism, socinianism, secularism, materialism, and all
those evils in _ism_, which, added to his rheumatism, rendered his
existence almost intolerable, he was, at the moment mentioned at the
opening of the chapter, just in the fire of composition. He wanted to
take his congregation by storm, and, like Calchas, he was preparing
his thunder.
But it was chiefly the Salvation Army that aroused his ire; it was for
these Sabbath breakers, that would come and shout and gesticulate
under his very windows, yelling blasphemous songs, accompanied by
trombones, cornets, concertinas, drums, and tambourines: it was for
these that he reserved his most powerful batteries and his avalanches
of anathemas.
He had chosen as his text for the occasion, the fifth verse of the
sixth chapter of the gospel according to St. Matthew: "And when thou
prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to
pray standing in the synagogues, and in the corners of the streets,
that they may be seen of men."
The good clergyman would have liked to take for his text merely the
latter part of this verse, for in the depths of his honest heart, it
seemed to him that this verse in its integrity ought to be interpreted
thus: "When thou prayest, do not as the hypocrites do, neither pray in
the temples nor in the streets," that is to say, "Pray not in public
to be seen of men." And he knew very well that this interpretation of
it was corroborated in the following verse, which says: "But thou,
when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and pray to thy Father which
is in secret."
The Holy Scriptures in English seem to be so written that each sect
shall be able to take that which suits its theories, and reject all
that does not. It is thus that the hundred and eighty-four religious
beliefs of England are founded upon the Scriptures, and that out of
the same Scriptures each of them condemns its hundred and eighty-three
rivals.
Yet, in spite of this, all these self-styled seekers after the truth
live in peace, in perfect harmony. The nation is so accustomed to
liberty that religious eccentricity appears to them a simple and
natural thing. But the ministers of all the denominations agree to
differ from the Gospel on the matter of meeting together in public to
pray. Their unanimity on this point is easy to understand. Indeed,
what would become of the priests and the lawyers, if every man were
free to plead his own cause before God and men? Besides, so long as
man is human, he will always be pleased to have an occasion of
advertising his virtue, and he who would make a short prayer in his
closet with the door shut, makes a very long one in the temple, before
his fellow-creatures whom he edifies with his piety.
* * * * *
The Vicar, with his head buried in his hands, was absorbed in the
deepest reflections, when the door of the library was opened suddenly,
and Mrs. Goodman entered hurriedly, a book in her hand.
This book was a copy of the New Testament, revised and corrected by
the Commission for the revision of the Holy Scriptures.
"Well, this is a pretty state of things!" cried that lady
breathlessly, as she dropped into an easy chair.
----"What is the matter, my dear?" asked the Vicar.
----"What is the matter! What is the matter indeed! A pretty question
to ask! The matter is that we are ruined; that before very long,
thanks to the bishops and the rest, whose business it is to look after
the interests of our Holy Church, the country will soon be full of
materialists and infidels."
----"Come, come; what is all this about, my dear?" said the reverend
gentleman quietly.
----"What is it about! Ah! my dear, it is easy to see you are paid by
the State, from the way in which you take things. There, read that,
and see what you think of it. It's a very pretty state of things
truly! What is it coming to? Who is to be trusted? We are betrayed,
swindled, lost...."
----"But, my dear, once more, who is it you are so bitter against? I
cannot see what can have put you into such a state of mind."
----"Ah! really! You don't see that, instead of keeping that precious
phrase that sums up Christianity: 'What shall it profit a man if he
gain the whole world and lose his own soul,' the New Version has:
'What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world, and lose his
own life'?"
----"I see it very well; but read the reference: _or his soul_. You
have not looked at the foot of the page."
----"That hesitation only makes the matter worse. The translators had
much better have said frankly what they mean."
----"The Greek word _psuche_ signifies _soul_ as well as _breath_,
_life_."
----"Much I care for your Greek," cried Mrs. Goodman, indignant. "Do
your congregation know anything about Greek? What will they think of
us? That for centuries past, the Church has been deceiving them and
making them pay tithes for nothing. Can't you see that this change is
tantamount to saying there is no hell? Just as well say that our
Saviour never spoke of the other world, that everything He said
applies to the life here below, and that His precepts were only given
to teach the people to be happy in this world. It is frightful to
think of! We must not be surprised at anything after this. The next
thing I shall expect to see, is the bishops rallying round the
Unitarians and denying the divinity of Christ. That there is no such
place as purgatory, I am quite ready to admit; but if there is no
hell, while I am in Heaven, where will the sinners be, my poor Barty?
where will the sinners be?"
This little pet name, that the worthy lady only called her husband by
on great occasions, made the good Vicar feel sure that his wife had
come to him to seek some consolation. He accordingly set about trying
to pour balm on her wounds.
"Calm yourself, my dear wife," he said to her; "calm yourself. To tell
you the truth, I attach but a secondary importance to the New
Testament, and you know it; this is between ourselves. We are
Christians undoubtedly; but our glorious origin, traced from the Old
Testament, is a title much more sacred to us. So that we are descended
from Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, that we are the chosen people of the
Lord, what matters anything else to us?"
And in this matter the reverend gentleman was right. The religion of
the English is more Jewish than Catholic, and it might safely be
affirmed that an Englishman of the old school would sooner suffer one
to speak jokingly of any of the saints than of one of the characters
of the Old Testament, even though it might be Mrs. Potiphar, or one of
the ladies of the Lot family.
"No, my dear," continued the Vicar; "be sure that no harm can befall
us. We are the just and holy nation, the heritage of the Lord."
----"That is all very well ... for the future world," replied Mrs.
Goodman; "but for the present, I do not see how you are going to
explain to the congregation a change that appears to me to overturn
the structure of our Church completely. If we do not maintain our
precepts, we are done for. The Church should be consistent. Look at
the Pope: with his dogma of infallibility, he is still on his throne."
----"After all, my dear, if one did away with hell, there would be no
great harm done, and our greatest dignitaries of the Anglican Church
are of this opinion, you know."
----"Do away with hell!" cried Mrs. Goodman; "if you take that line,
we may as well shut up the Church."
----"You excite yourself for nothing, my dear, and you are wrong to
express yourself in such a way."
----"Protest then."
----"Against whom, against what would you have me protest? The
authorities of the Church have decided the alteration; we subalterns
have but to bow to their decision. Besides, I shall tell my
congregation that in the New Version _life_ means future life."
----"Very good, Barty; a good idea, for, be sure of it, you can't get
on without any hell: it is the fear of the devil that keeps the masses
in submission."
----"My dear wife, I assure you once more, that if there is a hell, it
matters not to us: the House of Israel--that is to say, the British
nation--will be saved to the last soul."
----"And the others?"
----"What others?"
----"Why, the French, the Germans, the Italians, the Chinese, and the
rest. What will become of them? Won't there be any of them in
Paradise?"
----"A few perhaps, but in very inferior places, you may be sure."
----"Who dies will see," said Mrs. Goodman.
----"Just so; make yourself comfortable; calm yourself, and have no
fear for the future. And now let me finish my sermon for to-morrow."
----"Don't talk to me of your sermons; you have enough of them, there
in your cupboards, to preach from, for the rest of your days."
----"My dear, it is a sermon of my own composition that I am
preparing."
----"That will be a treat for the congregation! Come, put away all
that, and drive me to the station; the carriage is ready."
----"It is impossible, my love; I have several letters to write."
----"You can write them to-morrow."
----"You would not have me write letters on a Sunday!" cried the
Vicar.
----"Can't you date them the day before? Really, Barty, I did not
think you were so simple as that."
----"Besides," added the worthy Mr. Goodman, "I have several places to
go to, a lot of bills to pay: the tradesmen are bothering me...."
----"Send them some tracts to remind them that humility and patience
are Christian virtues."
----"That does not pay in these days."
----"Whose fault is it? How can you expect that those people will
believe in you, when you don't believe in yourselves?"
----"My dear, my dear, I beg you will not renew that subject. You give
me a headache. Come, you are right to make me go out; I will drive you
to the station."
* * * * *
Of all the tasks Mrs. Goodman set her husband, the one the reverend
gentleman dreaded most was driving out his model wife. The thought of
being able to return alone, and finish his sermon in peace, however,
made him put a cheerful face upon it.
The station was four miles distant from the vicarage, and part of the
journey consisted of a long steep hill to climb.
Mrs. Goodman, in her quality of member and agent of the Royal Society
for the Protection of Animals, never failed to make her husband alight
at the foot of the hill. "You are not going to make poor Bob drag you
up?" said she: "get down and walk: you get stouter every day; a walk
will do you good." The poor Vicar, heavy and asthmatical, alighted,
and puffing, coughing, and breathless, he followed as best he could
to the top of the hill, regretting as he went that husbands were not
included among the animals protected by the Society.
Arrived at the station, he took a ticket, placed his wife comfortably
in the corner of a carriage, and was about to quit the station, when
that lady called out to him: "Barty, be sure you don't forget to walk
when you come to the hill."
"Certainly, my dear," said the good parson, whom the sight of his
wife, starting in a direction opposed to that of the vicarage,
rendered facetious; "if you like, I'll put Bob in the carriage, and
push behind ... and the Society for the Protection of Animals will
award you a gold medal at least."
The engine whistled. The Vicar waved his hand to his wife, and
returned to his carriage, promising himself to do the return journey
at a good pace.
At the foot of the hill, Bob turned his head, according to his wont,
to see if his load were going to obey the injunctions of his
benefactrice; he even went so far as to bring up, in order to allow
the Vicar to get down more comfortably; but that gentleman pretended
not to understand the proceedings of the intelligent animal; he even
administered to Bob two or three sharp strokes of the whip, which
made him grow reflective. Mrs. Goodman's _protégé_ thought it prudent
to step out a little more smartly, and in less than half an hour he
had got over his four miles.
The Vicar had his horse put in the stable, the carriage in the
coach-house, ordered tea to be taken to him in his library, and to his
great satisfaction, was able to terminate the sermon that had been
ruminating in his mind so long.
III.
In the parish of All Angels, the children of the poor went every
Sunday to a Bible-class held in the church schoolroom.
The first class was under the direction of the Vicar's wife.
Proceedings commenced at three with prayer; then a hymn was sung, and
the classes began.
In these Sunday classes, passages of the Bible are read and explained
to the children by the teacher.
On the Sunday in question, Mrs. Goodman had chosen as the subject of
her lesson the twenty-eighth chapter of Isaiah. As soon as the hymn
was over she began to read:
"_Woe to the crown of pride, to the drunkards of Ephraim, whose
glorious beauty is a fading flower...._