He dogmatised but little, he would have feared to fail in respect towards his Alma Mater, the Anglican Church, in seeking to defend her, or prove that she only had the sole monopoly of the salvation of souls. Being no great theologian, but endowed with a simple soul and decidedly middling abilities, he contented himself with preaching to his flock the old story, as he was pleased to call the doctrine of Christ.
His sermons were very mediocre productions of the mind, in spite of the time he spent over their manufacture; and when his wife would pity him for all the labour they cost him, he would answer with a sigh: “My dear, it is true my sermons do take up a good deal of my time, but it is those who are obliged to listen to them that you should pity, and not me.”
This excellent man had his hobby, as indeed every Englishman has, especially if he be a bit of a theologian; he firmly believed that the English nation was none other than the ten tribes of Israel, who disappeared after the destruction of Jerusalem. The matter formed a never-ending subject of discussion for him, and when he chanced to come across a good soul ready to listen to him, he grew animated and almost eloquent over his theme. The idea was ever present with him, and if he retired to rest at night, beside his virtuous spouse, without having discovered some new proof of the identity of the House of Israel with the British nation, he would exclaim with Titus, “I have lost a day.”
Of all the domestic animals that drew breath about the vicarage there was not one more docile and useful, in the eyes of Mrs. Bartholomew Goodman, than the reverend gentleman, her husband.
The worthy lady had taken the management of the parish into her own hands. In her estimation, her husband was a good, well-meaning vicar, incapable of anything beyond the writing of his sermons. As these sermons were dull enough to send one to sleep standing up, and it was usual to listen to them in a sitting posture, their chance of doing good was but small. Besides, added Mrs. Goodman to herself, sermons never converted anybody yet. The blackest sinner does not recognise his own portrait in the descriptions of the lost that fall from the preacher’s lips. No, when the sermon is over, each hearer goes away very well satisfied with himself, simply reflecting on his homeward way: “Poor Smith! or poor Brown! how straight the vicar preached at him this morning!” It is always to one’s neighbour that the satires of the stage or the diatribes of the pulpit apply, and that is why no one thinks of getting angry at church or in the theatre.
To produce any effect upon the sinner, you must adopt arguments ad hominem; you must beard the animal in his den. This rôle of champion of the Church militant Mrs. Goodman had marked out for herself. Satan never found himself confronted with a more formidable enemy.
Mrs. Goodman, it should be explained, seemed to be built for battle: six feet high, alert and thin as a greyhound, with little piercing eyes, a complete and formidable-looking cage of teeth, an aquiline nose, curving boldly downward towards a long flat chin that it seemed to threaten one day to join; everything about this soldier of the faith denoted a resolution equal to the most arduous undertaking, a resolution that neither rebuffs, ridicule, nor danger could shake.
At the voice of his wife, the good vicar was wont to tremble with respect and apprehension.
In England, where wives are so docile, so respectful and submissive to their husbands, the wife of the clergyman seems to be an exception to the rule. It is easy to understand why. It is always more or less the garb that makes the monk. For us, the priest means the black cassock and the white surplice, that is to say austerity and innocence. Whether it be prejudice or not, it seems difficult to reconcile the idea of a priest’s life with that of a husband, even the most saintly husband on earth. You may call your wife your chaste spouse as much as you like, it will always mean that she is chaste towards others, that she is faithful to you; but after all, how shall I explain myself? Well ... I never heard that the children of the clergy fall from the moon into their mother’s arms: that is all I can say.
I never could understand that curious being, a married priest. I mean the veritable priest by vocation, the pastor of souls, the evangelist. We are not treating here of those clergymen who are savants, professors, writers, perfect gentlemen indeed, thorough men of the world, taking the expression in its best sense; still less are we treating of those clergymen who enter Holy Orders because it gives a good standing in life, and increases their chance of making a rich marriage, and who do not turn Mahometans, because the Mahometan faith is not fashionable in England, and would open up to a man no lucrative career.