Humility was a virtue consecrated to the poor, to the rural poor especially; and what with Methodism on the one hand, and the jarring echoes of the French Revolution on the other, the British ploughman was obviously growing less humble every day. Crabbe, who cherished no illusions, painted him in colours grim enough to fill the reader with despair; but Miss More entertained a feminine conviction that Bibles and flannel waistcoats fulfilled his earthly needs. In all her stories and tracts the villagers are as artificial as the happy peasantry of an old-fashioned opera. They group themselves deferentially around the squire and the rector; they wear costumes of uncompromising rusticity; and they sing a chorus of praise to the kind young ladies who have brought them a bowl of soup. It is curious to turn from this atmosphere of abasement, from perpetual curtsies and the lowliest of lowly virtues, to the journal of the painter Haydon, who was a sincerely pious man, yet who cannot restrain his wonder and admiration at seeing the Duke of Wellington behave respectfully in church. That a person so august should stand when the congregation stood, and kneel when the congregation knelt, seemed to Haydon an immense condescension. “Here was the greatest hero in the world,” he writes ecstatically, “who had conquered the greatest genius, prostrating his heart and being before his God in his venerable age, and praying for His mercy.”
It is the most naïve impression on record. That the Duke and the Duke’s scullion might perchance stand equidistant from the Almighty was an idea which failed to present itself to Haydon’s ardent mind.
The pious fiction put forward in the interest of dissent was more impressive, more emotional, more belligerent, and, in some odd way, more human than “Cœlebs,” or “The Shepherd of Salisbury Plain.” Miss Grace Kennedy’s stories are as absurd as Miss More’s, and—though the thing may sound incredible—much duller; but they give one an impression of painful earnestness, and of that heavy atmosphere engendered by too close a contemplation of Hell. A pious Christian lady, with local standards, a narrow intelligence, and a comprehensive ignorance of life, is not by election a novelist. Neither do polemics lend themselves with elasticity to the varying demands of fiction. There are, in fact, few things less calculated to instruct the intellect or to enlarge the heart than the perusal of controversial novels.
But Miss Kennedy had at least the striking quality of temerity. She was not afraid of being ridiculous. She was undaunted in her ignorance. And she was on fire with all the bitter ardour of the separatist. Miss More, on the contrary, entertained a judicial mistrust for fervour, fanaticism, the rush of ardent hopes and fears and transports, for all those vehement emotions which are apt to be disconcerting to ladies of settled views and incomes. Her model Christian, Candidus, “avoids enthusiasm as naturally as a wise man avoids folly, or as a sober man shuns extravagance. He laments when he encounters a real enthusiast, because he knows that, even if honest, he is pernicious.” In the same guarded spirit, Mrs. Montagu praises the benevolence of Lady Bab Montagu and Mrs. Scott, who had the village girls taught plain sewing and the catechism. “These good works are often performed by the Methodist ladies in the heat of enthusiasm; but, thank God! my sister’s is a calm and rational piety.” “Surtout point de zèle,” was the dignified motto of the day.
There is none of this chill sobriety about Miss Kennedy’s Bible Christians, who, a hundred years ago, preached to a listening world. They are aflame with a zeal which knows no doubts and recognizes no forbearance. Their methods are akin to those of the irrepressible Miss J——, who undertook, Bible in hand, the conversion of that pious gentleman, the Duke of Wellington; or of Miss Lewis, who went to Constantinople to convert that equally pious gentleman, the Sultan. Miss Kennedy’s heroes and heroines stand ready to convert the world. They would delight in expounding the Scriptures to the Pope and the Patriarch of Constantinople. Controversy affords their only conversation. Dogma of the most unrelenting kind is their only food for thought. Piety provides their only avenue for emotions. Elderly bankers weep profusely over their beloved pastor’s eloquence, and fashionable ladies melt into tears at the inspiring sight of a village Sunday School. Young gentlemen, when off on a holiday, take with them “no companion but a Bible”; and the lowest reach of worldliness is laid bare when an unconverted mother asks her daughter if she can sing something more cheerful than a hymn. Conformity to the Church of England is denounced with unsparing warmth; and the Church of Rome is honoured by having a whole novel, the once famous “Father Clement,” devoted to its permanent downfall.
Dr. Greenhill, who has written a sympathetic notice of Miss Kennedy in the “Dictionary of National Biography,” considers that “Father Clement” was composed “with an evident wish to state fairly the doctrines and practices of the Roman Catholic Church, even while the authoress strongly disapproves of them”;—a point of view which compels us to believe that the biographer spared himself (and who shall blame him?) the reading of this melancholy tale. That George Eliot, who spared herself nothing, was well acquainted with its context, is evidenced by the conversation of the ladies who, in “Janet’s Repentance,” meet to cover and label the books of the Paddiford Lending Library. Miss Pratt, the autocrat of the circle, observes that the story of “Father Clement” is, in itself, a library on the errors of Romanism, whereupon old Mrs. Linnet very sensibly replies: “One ’ud think there didn’t want much to drive people away from a religion as makes ’em walk barefoot over stone floors, like that girl in ‘Father Clement,’ sending the blood up to the head frightful. Anybody might see that was an unnat’ral creed.”
So they might; and a more unnatural creed than Father Clement’s Catholicism was never devised for the extinction of man’s flickering reason. Only the mental debility of the Clarenham family can account for their holding such views long enough to admit of their being converted from them by the Montagus. Only the militant spirit of the Clarenham chaplain and the Montagu chaplain makes possible several hundred pages of polemics. Montagu Bibles run the blockade, are discovered in the hands of truth-seeking Clarenhams, and are hurled back upon the spiritual assailants. The determination of Father Dennis that the Scriptures shall be quoted in Latin only (a practice which is scholarly but inconvenient), and the determination of Edward Montagu “not to speak Latin in the presence of ladies,” embarrass social intercourse. Catherine Clarenham, the young person who walks barefooted over stone floors, has been so blighted by this pious exercise that she cannot, at twenty, translate the Pater Noster or Ave Maria into English, and remains a melancholy illustration of Latinity. When young Basil Clarenham shows symptoms of yielding to Montagu arguments, and begins to want a Bible of his own, he is spirited away to Rome, and confined in a monastery of the Inquisition, where he spends his time reading “books forbidden by the Inquisitors,” and especially “a New Testament with the prohibitory mark of the Holy Office upon it,” which the weak-minded monks have amiably placed at his disposal. Indeed, the monastery library, to which the captive is made kindly welcome, seems to have been well stocked with interdicted literature; and, after browsing in these pastures for several tranquil months, Basil tells his astonished hosts that their books have taught him that “the Romish Church is the most corrupt of all churches professing Christianity.” Having accomplished this unexpected but happy result, the Inquisition exacts from him a solemn vow that he will never reveal its secrets, and sends him back to England, where he loses no time in becoming an excellent Protestant. His sister Maria follows his example (her virtues have pointed steadfastly to this conclusion); but Catherine enters a convent, full of stone floors and idolatrous images, where she becomes a “tool” of the Jesuits, and says her prayers in Latin until she dies.
No wonder “Father Clement” went through twelve editions, and made its authoress as famous in her day as the authoress of “Elsie Dinsmore” is in ours. No wonder the Paddiford Lending Library revered its sterling worth. And no wonder it provoked from Catholics reprisals which Dr. Greenhill stigmatizes as “flippant.” To-day it lives by virtue of half a dozen mocking lines in George Eliot’s least-read story: but for a hundred years its progeny has infested the earth,—a crooked progeny, like Peer Gynt’s, which can never be straightened into sincerity, or softened into good-will. “For first the Church of Rome condemneth us, we likewise them,” observes Sir Thomas Browne with equanimity; “and thus we go to Heaven against each others’ wills, conceits, and opinions.”
THE ACCURSED ANNUAL
Why, by dabbling in those accursed Annuals, I have become a by-word of infamy all over the kingdom.—Charles Lamb.