“And who is Monsieur Greegs?” inquired Franceline, who was backward in gossip, and knew few of the local notabilities except by sight.
“Monsieur Griggs is a very respectable farmer, a shrewd judge of cattle, who knows a great deal about the relative merits of short-horns and the Devonshire breed, and all about pigs and poultry,” said the vicar with mild sarcasm.
“And he is a minister too!”
“After a fashion. He elected himself to the office, and it would seem he has plenty of followers. He started services on week-days when he found that I had commenced having them on Fridays, and drew away the very portion of the congregation they were specially intended for; and he preaches on Sundays. You have a sample of his style here,” nodding at Bessy, who was licking her fingers with great gusto, having finished her last mouthful.
“Is it not dreadful!” exclaimed Miss Merrywig. “And the people are so infatuated; they actually tell me that they understand this man better than their clergymen, that he speaks plainer to them, and understands better what they want, and that sort of thing. They don’t care about doctrine, you see, or controversy; they like to be talked to in a kind of conversational way by one of their own class who speaks bad grammar like themselves. They tell you to your face that they don’t understand the clergyman—I assure you they do; that his sermons are too learned, and only fit for gentle folk. You see they are so ignorant, the poor people! It’s very melancholy to think of.”
“They like better to be told they’ll go to hell and be damned, if they go to their own church; they ought not to be allowed to go to hear such things. I’ll speak to widow Bing, and make her promise me she’ll never go there again,” said Franceline peremptorily.
“No, no, my dear child; you mustn’t do anything of the kind,” said the vicar quickly. “No one has a right to meddle with the people in these things; if she likes to go to the dissenters, no one can prevent her.”
“But if she was fond of going into the gin-shop and getting tipsy, you’d have a right to meddle and to prevent her, would you not?” inquired Franceline.
“That’s a different thing,” said the vicar, who in his own mind thought the parallel was not so very wide of the mark.
“I can’t see it,” protested Franceline with an expressive shrug. “If you have a right to prevent their bodies from getting tipsy, and killing themselves or somebody else perhaps, why not their souls?”