Letter IX.—To Mrs Hedgehog of New York.
Dear Grandmother,—It was very kind of you, though away from Old England, to have prayers put up for the Bishops of Exeter and London, and Mr Courtenay and Mr Ward, with all the unfortunate young clergymen who’ve been frightening their good Mother Church, for all the world like young ducklings that, hatched by a hen, would take water. The bishops, you will be glad to learn, are much better; and now, Sunday after Sunday, the young parsons are taking off their white surplices and putting on their old gowns, just like idle, flashy, young dogs, who’ve been making a noise at a masquerade, but are once more prepared to go back to their serious counters. Mr Courtenay and two or three of his kidney did think of putting on chain-armour under their surplices, like the Templars that you once saw in the play of Ivanhoe; but whether the Bishop of Exeter has interfered or not, I can’t say: the thing’s given up.
Mr Ward, who has been turned out of Oxford for his ideal of a Christian Church—which means a Church with censers and candlesticks, and pictures of the Virgin, and martyrs’ bones, and other properties—is going to be married, if the business isn’t done already. I shouldn’t have written upon the matter, only Mr W. has printed a letter in all the papers, giving his notions of the holy state. They certainly are very sweet and complimentary to the lady chosen by Mr Ward, for he says—
“First, I hold it most firmly as a truth even of natural religion that celibacy is a higher condition of life than marriage.”
Now, if celibacy is the highest condition of life, how is it that Adam and Eve came together while they were yet in Paradise? Their union, according to Mr Ward, ought to have taken place after they both fell. Matrimony should have followed as a punishment for the apple. And then, when it was commanded, “Increase and multiply,” was it supposed that those who obeyed the command would not be in so “high a condition” as those who neglected it? But men read their Bibles through strange spectacles!
However, grandmother, as you like to hear all the chat about the Church, you must know that last week I took up a fare near the oyster-shop in Covent Garden—a very respectable sort of person—in fact, I’m sure one of the Established Church. When he had left the cab, I found that the Ecclesiastical Gazette (No. 18) had dropt from his pocket. I’ve gone through it, and found parts of it—I mean the Church advertisements—very odd indeed. You can’t think how strange they read after the New Testament. If you wouldn’t think the pulpit-cushion was a counter, after reading ’em. Look here, now:—
“A curate wanted in a large market-town forty miles from London, near a railroad, population five thousand, where the incumbent resides and takes his full share of the duty. He must be in Priest’s Orders, have a voice sufficiently loud for a very large church, and whilst holding moderately High Church views, be chiefly anxious to seek and save the lost by preaching Christ and Him crucified. Stipend one hundred pounds a year. The advertiser does not pledge himself to answer every letter.”
All of ’em bargain for a loud “voice:” you’d think, grandmother, the advertisements were for chorus-singers and not clergymen. And, grandmother, can you tell me what “a moderate High Church view” is? Is it moderate virtue—moderate honesty—moderate truth? Pray, tell me. Another advertiser wants “a pious and active curate,” who will double his duty with “the tuition of the incumbent’s sons.” That incumbent has a good eye for a good pennyworth, depend upon it. At Bishops Lydeard a curate is tempted with “a neat little cottage,” and “almost certainly the chaplaincy of an adjoining union,” with “other considerations” (what can they be, grandmother?) which will make the salary “equivalent to £100 per annum.” And for this he must be orthodox and married. Another curate is wanted in a “small parish in Berks,” where “the duty is very light.” What would the apostles have said to such an offer? A beneficed clergyman advertising from Camberwell, wishes for duty “in some agricultural and picturesque part of the north of England.” A picturesque part! You see, it isn’t every one who would like to preach in the wilderness. Another curate required in Nottinghamshire: salary, £100 per annum. He must have the highest references for “gentlemanly manners,” as “the vicar is resident.” I suppose if the vicar was away, a second or third rate style would do well enough for the parishioners.
However, you’ll be glad to learn that several of the advertisers profess to be “void of Tractarianism and other novelties.” Just in the same way as they write up somewhere in Piccadilly, “The original brown bear.”
Another clergyman “is desirous of meeting with an early appointment in town;” and, grandmother, you may judge of the lengths this gentleman will go to preach Christianity and save human souls, when he adds, “No objection to the Surrey side.” Isn’t this good of him? Because, you know, grandmother, the opera, and the clubhouses, and the divans, and so forth, are none of ’em on the Surrey side. To be sure, there’s the Victoria and Astley’s—but they’re low.
Now, grandmother, don’t all these advertisements smell a little too much of trade—don’t they, for your notions of the right thing, jingle a little too much with gold and silver? As I’m an honest cabman, though I knew I was reading all about the Church and her pious sons, yet somehow the advertisements did put me in mind of “Rowland’s Macassar,” “Mechi’s Magic Strops,” and “Good stout Cobs to be disposed of.”
I am, dear grandmother, your affectionate grandson,
Juniper Hedgehog.
P.S.—I open my letter to tell you that the Bishop of Exeter has broken out again. A Mr Blunt of Helston will wear the surplice; and the Bishop, like a bottle-holder at a fight, backs him in his doings. Do have more prayers put up for the Bishop.