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.
Letter X.—To Samuel Hedgehog, Galantee Showman, Ratcliffe Highway.
Dear Sam,—I’m just come home from Hampstead, and so, while the matter’s fresh in my mind, I sit down to write you a few lines. You have heard of the awful murder, of course. Well, I don’t know: murder’s a shocking thing, to be sure; nobody can say it isn’t; and yet, after what I’ve seen to-day—Sunday, mind—it does almost seem to me as if people took a sort of pleasure in it. Bless you! if you’d only seen the hundreds and hundreds of folks figged out in their very best to enjoy a sight of the place where a man had been butchered, you’d have thought Haverstock Field—stained and cursed as it is with blood—a second Vauxhall at the least. I’m sure I’ve seen people going to Greenwich Fair with not half the pleasure in their faces. However, I’ll tell you all about it.
I was called off the stand about eight this morning by a gentleman and lady, dressed, as I thought, for church. They’re a little early, thought I, but that’s their business. “Take us to Hampstead,” said the gentleman; “and mind, as near to the murder as possible.” “Do, my good man,” said the lady. Bless you! to have looked at her you’d have thought she’d have fainted at the sound of murder. “Do, my good man,” said she; “and make haste, for I wouldn’t be too late for anything. Take care of these,” said she to the gentleman, giving him a basket, “and mind you don’t break it.” Well, it’s my business to drive a cab; so I said nothing, but started for Hampstead. Bless you! before I’d got half up Tottenham Court Road, it was no easy driving, I can tell you. The road swarmed! Up and down the New Road, through Camden Town, and right to Haverstock Hill—I never saw anything like it, except perhaps on the day they run for the Derby. Everybody seemed turned out to enjoy themselves—determined to have a holiday and no mistake.