The evangelical parson, who would be horrified at the idea of taking his glass of whisky without first having said grace over it, and who, in our opinion, can scarcely fail to accord to the bliss of matrimony less anticipated gratitude than he bestows on his glass of grog;[9] this man must appear strange indeed, incomprehensible to a woman who is witness of all his little failings—taking for granted that he has no defects, and of course no vices—to a woman, that little Argus-eyed observer, who is, I say, witness of a thousand actions which prove to her that this priest is only a man ... like other men. For us, on the contrary, a priest is not like other men; scarcely is he a man in our eyes. No, I cannot realise the idea; it is beyond my conception. The slit-up surplice that I dare not name, for, in shape, it is the most ridiculous-looking garment of a man’s wardrobe.... No, no! in the bedroom, this oracle and his wife must certainly be unable to keep their countenance.
[9] See [Appendix (c)].
This is not all.
The wife of a Protestant minister has a thousand and one occupations which render her important, and these occupations are more manly than those of her husband: she puts his theories into practice. He makes sermons and collections; she distributes alms, visits the sick, organises associations, fêtes, bazaars, concerts, lectures, tea-parties at a shilling a head; she is the dispenser of all the favours of the vicarage.
Now, place woman on a footing of equality with man, and her natural instinct will soon place her on a pedestal from which she will exercise authority overbearingly. I say overbearingly, for woman being born to be protected, when she takes the upper hand, does so like a parvenue; that is, fussily, indiscreetly.
This natural instinct Mrs. Goodman possessed in the highest degree; her husband could have given evidence upon the point.
The vicar’s wife had other reasons for believing herself superior to her husband. She was of aristocratic origin, and pretended to be descended from the Irish kings. For that matter, we may take the opportunity of remarking that we have not yet met with any Irish people that were not descended, in a straight line, from the ancient kings of Ireland. If we were to believe the excellent Hibernians, our Louis XII. never half so well earned the title of Father of the People as these old monarchs of Erin. The exploits of Hercules are mere child’s play by the side of the tours de force of those lusty Celts.
Proud of her ancestors, Mrs. Goodman often reminded the poor pastor of his obscure birth. “I ought to be the wife of a bishop,” she would sometimes say to him, when he did not seem sufficiently lost in admiration before her. “Alas, would that you were, my dear!” thought the worthy man. And as he was good-natured and had no reason for wishing harm to the chief of his diocese, the wish died on his lips and was almost inaudible.
We believe we have said enough to prove that the Rev. Bartholomew Goodman found his purgatory in this world, which must have been, for his Christian soul, a great consolation and even a source of joy, since the Protestant religion does not admit of the existence of this place of purification in the next.