CHAPTER FOURTEEN—THE LIGHTER SIDE OF CLERICAL LIFE
I.—THE FRANK CANON
I DO NOT THINK THAT, TAKING THEM all round, the Cathedral dignitaries of Broadminster can be accused of assuming a greater importance than is due to their position; but a story is told about a Canon, lately deceased, which goes far to prove that he at least did not shrink from putting forward what he believed to be a reasonable claim to distinction—relative distinction. It is said that he was in the one bookseller's shop which is still to be found in the town. It was Saturday evening, when a stranger entered and, after buying a book, inquired of the proprietor who was the best preacher in the place: he explained that he was staying over Sunday and was anxious to hear the best.
This was too delicate a question for the bookseller (with a clergyman at his elbow) to answer at a moment's notice; so he thought he would do well to evade the responsibility by referring the stranger to the Canon.
“This gentleman is a stranger to the town, sir,” he said, “and he wishes to know who is the best preacher. I thought that perhaps you, sir——”
“I hope you will pardon me, sir,” said the stranger. “I am staying here till Monday, and I ventured to inquire who is the best preacher.”
“The best preacher, sir?” said the Canon, looking up from the book which he was sampling. “The best preacher? I am the best preacher, sir: I am Canon Hillman.”
The stranger was slightly startled.