Part 10

"Over and over again, we have had it in evidence that the secret drinking of the home has been traceable, not to habits picked up in the public-house, but rather to the means of intoxication supplied through the grocer's shop. Of this there is not the slightest doubt, and when we remember that one of our famous judges, not long ago, traced most of the terrible wife-murders, not to the drunkenness of the husbands, but to the drunkenness of the wives, who had made their homes so wretched that their husbands were aggravated into committing the crime; when we remember further that, from all sides, there comes evidence that, however successful our other efforts are in the temperance cause, drunkenness is increasing amongst a certain class of the population, and that this is more or less traceable to the grocers' licences, we shall conclude that we are bound to try and do something to remove this special cause of temptation from the homes of our brothers and sisters. Not long ago, I was taking part in a mission in a town some distance from Torquay, and, in a very poor neighbourhood, I met the wife of an artisan coming out of one of the grocer's shops. She had a basket upon her arm, and in it were the usual groceries. The woman allowed me to look into the basket, and there underneath all was the unmistakable bottle of spirits. I went into the shop under the pretence of getting change for a sovereign, and during the short time I was there, six or eight women came in and purchased spirits."

"Between ourselves," I whispered to my neighbour, "it would have been more generous of the very reverend gentleman, if he had made a little purchase of the grocer he was getting up evidence against, instead of asking him for a favour."

I continued to lend an attentive ear.

"In a railway station refreshment room, before half-past nine in the morning, the following scene passed before my eyes:--Three very respectably-dressed good-looking shop girls, evidently going out for a holiday, went straight to the bar and ordered, in the most unblushing way, a glass of bitter beer. Shortly afterwards, a fourth girl joined them, and she as unblushingly asked for three pennyworth of spirits, which she drank on the spot.... Not long ago, in this very town, I was in a well-known refreshment shop, and whilst I was there, a lady, respectable in appearance, with a child by her side, and a carriage waiting outside to take her home, consumed no less than three glasses of sherry one after the other. This was utterly unnecessary in the middle of the day, and it was probably unknown to the lady's husband.... You will help us, I am convinced, to put a stop to this state of things; you will sign the petition we are about to send to Parliament, and in which we ask our representatives to remove a very great cause of temptation from the homes of many of our brethren by withdrawing the grocers' licences."

The Archdeacon was followed on the platform by some ladies, who gave the audience the benefit of their own experiences with regard to the drunken habits of Englishwomen; after which the hymn, "To the work," was sung; for if, in France, everything ends in songs, in England everything ends in hymns.

"Why," I said to my spinster friend, "there is no common sense in all this. What! no more arguments than that! Because a few women have been to buy a little brandy of their grocer, with the most innocent intention perhaps, you are going to ask Parliament to prevent free and honest citizens, who object to going to the public-house, from getting a bottle of wine with their groceries. It is absurd."

----"Not at all," she replied; "I have been drinking nothing but water for forty years and more, and the day we all become water drinkers, we shall be a holy nation."

----"A nation of lunatics," thought I; and getting out of this atmosphere as quickly as I could I jumped into a cab and drove to the station. As I alighted, I noticed that my cabby had a bit of yellow ribbon in his buttonhole.

"Hallo!" I said to him, "what decoration do you call that?"

----"Ah! you have been with the water drinkers, to the Blue Ribbon meeting, sir; I belong to the Yellow Ribbon Army, I do."

----"Indeed," cried I; "and what do they do in the Yellow Ribbon Army?"

----"Why," he answered; "you eats what you like, and you drinks what you like, and you don't care a damn for nobody."

By Jove! it was quite a treat to see a _man_ again after having passed the evening with such a lot of old women.

"Here, old fellow," said I to this free-born Briton, who had one of those good open faces such as you see so often in Devonshire, "take this, and go and drink my health;" and I turned away to the ticket office, reconciled with mankind.[8]

[8] I know a clergyman who has just been obliged to give up an excellent living, for having refused to comply with the request of the squire of the neighbourhood, that he should adorn himself with that certificate of stupidity, that decoration of reformed drunkards, the Blue Ribbon.

The clergyman is a simpleton. To get or keep a good living, I would not hesitate to put a piece of blue ribbon in my buttonhole: it is so easy to put it in one's pocket, while one takes a glass of grog or generous Bordeaux.

XVIII.

New Salvation Agencies--Priestess Rubbers--_Asinus asinam fricat_.

Whitaker's Almanack for 1884 announces sixteen new religious sects or associations certified to the Registrar-General.

To my great regret, I notice the disappearance of the Rational Christians. This leaves a net gain of fifteen associations: a very respectable figure, it must be admitted. Here are the names of the sixteen new sects or associations in question:--

Children's Special Service Association; Christian Soldiers; Church Army; Church of England (unattached); Free Salvation Army; Gospel Army Mission; Gospel Band; Israel, New and Latter House of Jews; King's Own Army; Latter-Day Saints; Members of the Church of England; Methodist Army; Mission Army; Pilgrim Band; Positivists; Young Women's Christian Association.

Do not be surprised, if before long you see, figuring on the list of new religious sects, the Materialists and the Atheists or Bradlaughites. I say _religious sects_, for in this country, even the Atheist raises his unbelief to the dignity of a religion, and builds, or rather gets built--which is more intelligent--a little conventicle of his own.

In France, religion is a monopoly; in England, it is a race, a steeple-chase.

In France, a new idea, a theory that sees the light and meets with success, is the foundation of a new school; in England, the foundation of a new church.

You will soon hear also of a sect that will be immensely popular, I do not doubt: it is the sect of the Rubbers, or to give them a more technical name, the _Frictionary Christians_. That it is of American importation, it is scarcely needful to add. This is what the English papers of the 5th February, 1884, say on the subject:--"A writer in the _Boston Advertiser_ (U.S.) of January 18th, gives an account of what he considers to be a new development of a very common form of hysteria. This new development is the latest doctrine of a sect founded some years ago in Park Street, Boston, under the name of Christian Scientists; the meeting being attended by devout if not strictly philosophical or scientific ladies. The new doctrine is this: Matter in itself, they say, is inert, insensate, lifeless, and unpotential; the power which animates matter is divine. Illness is want of vital power, therefore want of divinity. A mind healer is a person who is full to superabundance upon his own cognizance of the Almighty, and who is willing to allow his, or more generally her, superfluity or abundance to overflow into the person of some patient in whom it is declared the presence of disease proves the absence of the Lord. The process is of the simplest. The healer sits down with her back in contact with the corresponding portion of the patient's person, and for the moderate price of a dollar an hour allows the supposed divine influence to filter from vertebræ to vertebræ."

Now this is what I call easy and convenient, and I might even add, most pleasant; you rub and rub until your salvation is an accomplished fact. If your priestess is a nice smooth-backed plump young woman, the operation cannot fail to be pleasant as well as novel.

As you see, it is the embrocation of salvation, and nothing more. Success warranted after a few applications.

If the Rubbers are in search of a motto or a trade-mark, I would suggest: _Asinus asinam fricat._

XIX.

THE VICAR'S WIFE.

Fragments.

I.

The Reverend Bartholomew Goodman, vicar of E... was the only representative of orthodoxy in that pretty little town of Devonshire. Though rheumatic, this salaried believer in apostolic succession was, correctly speaking, neither saint nor martyr. He had a wife and children, and, one year with another, his living brought him in about five hundred pounds.

He dogmatised but little, he would have feared to fail in respect 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.

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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.

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