"When cold in death I lie."
How great the change in the temporal condition of the Minister of Old and Modern Times. The half-fed, ill-paid, scantily-clothed, over-worked, discouraged "minister" of the olden time is—where is he? The "minister," before whose pen and paper came the troubled faces of wife and children; who dreaded the knock of a parishioner, lest it should involve the diminution of a "salary" which a common day-laborer might well refuse for its pitiful inadequacy; the minister whose body was expected to be so Siamesed to his soul, that the "heavenly manna" would answer equally the demands of both. The minister who must plant and hoe his own potatoes, but always in a black coat and white neckcloth. The minister whose children must come up miniature saints, while all their father's spare time was spent in driving his parishioners' children safe to heaven. The minister who, when he was disabled for farther service, was turned out like an old horse to browse on thistles by the road-side;—that minister, to the credit of humanity be it said, is among the things that were. Instead—nobody is astonished at, or finds fault with, paragraphs in the papers announcing that the Rev. Rufus Rusk was presented by the board of trustees, in the name of many friends of his congregation, with a costly autograph album; upon every page of which was found a $10 greenback, amounting in all to $1,000; and that afterward he was invited to partake of an elegant collation. Or—that the Rev. Silas Sands received from his church and congregation securities to the amount of $10,000, as a testimonial of their esteem for his faithful services for many years. Or, that the Rev. Henry Cook had a gift of a commodious and pleasant residence from his church; or, that his health seeming to require a voyage to Europe, the necessary funds were promptly and cheerfully placed in his hands by his affectionate people.
The community do not faint away at these announcements, as far as I can find out. They seem to have come to the unanimous conclusion that the "minister," like other laborers, is "worthy of his hire." For one, I could wish this knowledge had come sooner; for I bethink me, in my day, of the good men and true, who have staggered to their graves without a sympathizing word, or the slightest token of recognition for services under which soul and body were fainting; and whose bitterest death-pang was the thought that their children, too young to help themselves, must, after all this serfdom, be the recipients of a grudging charity.
The presence of a clergyman is not now the signal for small children to be seized with mortal terror; he no longer sits like a night-mare on the panting chest of merriment. He is merry himself. The more Christianity he has the more cheerful he is, and ought to be. He talks upon other things than the ten commandments. He joins in innocent games and amusements. If he has an opinion, he dares express it, though it may differ from that of some "prominent man." He can fish and shoot, and drive and row, and take a milk punch, like other free agents without damaging his clerical robe or his usefulness. He can have beautiful things to make his home attractive, without being accused of "worldliness." He can wear a nicely fitting coat, or boot, or hat, without peril to anybody's salvation. He can give a good dinner, or go to one. He can go to the circus. He can attend the opera. He can own and drive a fast horse. His stomach consequently does not, as of yore, cling to his miserable backbone; nor are his cheeks cavernous; since he draws a free breath, and sneezes when he see fit, like the laymen. Every day I thank God that the clergyman's millennium has begun. That his wife looks no longer like a piece of worn-out old fur, nor his children like spring chickens. That congregations now feel a pride in their minister, and an honest shame when he really needs anything which they have, and he has not. That they no longer hurt his self-respect by their manner of "giving" what he has earned a thousand times over. In short, "the minister" is no longer a cringing creature, creeping close to the wall, lest he offend by the mere fact of his existence; but a brisk-stepping, square-shouldered, broad-chested, round human being, whom it is pleasant to look at and comforting to listen to, since his theology is no longer as pinched as his larder.
As to "the minister's wife" of the olden time, where is she? The ubiquitous "minister's wife," who must make and mend, and bake and brew, and churn, and have children, and nurse and educate them, and receive calls at all hours, with a sweet smile on her face, and thank everybody for reminding her of what they consider her short-comings; who must attend funerals, and weddings, and births, and social prayer-meetings, and "neighborhood-meetings," and "maternal meetings;" and contribute calico aprons for the Fejee Islanders, and sew flannel nightcaps for the Choctaw infants, and cut and make her husband's trousers; and call as often on Mrs. Deacon Smith, and stay as long to the minute, as she did on Mrs. Deacon Jones; and who must call a parish meeting to sit on her new bonnet, if so be that the old one was pronounced by all the Grundys unfit for farther service. The minister's wife, who was hunted through the weeks and months and years, by a carping, stingy parish, till she looked like a worn-out old piece of fur; behold her now!
For one, I like to see her pretty bonnet, I like to see her children shouting in the sunshine, all the same as if their "Pa" wasn't a minister. I like her daughters to play on the piano, and her boys to kick round independently and generally like the boys of other men. I like to see them live in a comfortable house, hung with pictures and filled with pretty things. I like their table to have nice cups and saucers, and table-cloths and napkins, and good things to eat on it. I am glad the minister's wife can stay at home when she feels like it; and not be trotted out with the toothache of a wet day to see if there is not danger of Squire Smith's baby sneezing because the wind is east; under penalty of her husband's dismissal from his pastoral charge. It does me good to see modern ministers' spouses hold up their heads and face the daylight like other men's wives, instead of creeping round on all fours, apologizing for their existence, and inviting cuffs from people who, born without souls, consequently can have no call for "a minister."