Scenes of Clerical Life Read online

lady off. They say a green Yule makes a fat churchyard; but so does a white Yule

  too, for that matter. When the stool's rotten enough, no matter who sits on't."

  However, on her arrival at Cross Farm, the prospect of Mrs Patten's decease was

  again thrown into the dim distance in her imagination, for Miss Janet Gibbs met

  her with the news that Mrs Patten was much better, and led her, without any

  preliminary announcement, to the old lady's bedroom. Janet had scarcely reached

  the end of her circumstantial narrative how the attack came on and what were her

  aunt's sensations�a narrative to which Mrs Patten, in her neatly-plaited

  night-cap, seemed to listen with a contemptuous resignation to her niece's

  historical inaccuracy, contenting herself with occasionally confounding Janet by

  a shake of the head�when the clatter of a horse's hoofs on the yard pavement

  announced the arrival of Mr Pilgrim, whose large, top-booted person presently

  made its appearance up-stairs. He found Mrs Patten going on so well that there

  was no need to look solemn. He might glide from condolence into gossip without

  offence, and the temptation of having Mrs Hackit's ear was irresistible.

  "What a disgraceful business this is turning out of your parson's," was the

  remark with which he made this agreeable transition, throwing himself back in

  the chair from which he had been leaning towards the patient.

  "Eh, dear me!" said Mrs Hackit, "disgraceful enough. I stuck to Mr Barton as

  long as I could, for his wife's sake; but I can't countenance such goings on.

  It's hateful to see that woman coming with 'em to service of a Sunday, and if Mr

  Hackit wasn't churchwarden and I didn't think it wrong to forsake one's own

  parish, I should go to Knebley church. There's many parish'ners as do."

  "I used to think Barton was only a fool," observed Mr Pilgrim, in a tone which

  implied that he was conscious of having been weakly charitable. "I thought he

  was imposed upon and led away by those people when they first came. But that's

  impossible now."

  "O, it's as plain as the nose in your face," said Mrs Hackit, unreflectingly,

  not perceiving the equivoque in her comparison,�"comin' to Milby, like a sparrow

  perchin' on a bough, as I may say, with her brother, as she called him; and

  then, all on a sudden, the brother goes off wi' himself, and she throws herself

  on the Bartons. Though what could make her take up wi' a poor notomise of a

  parson, as hasn't got enough to keep wife and children, there's one above

  knows�I don't."

  "Mr Barton may have attractions we don't know of," said Mr Pilgrim, who piqued

  himself on a talent for sarcasm. "The Countess has no maid now, and they say Mr

  Barton is handy in assisting at her toilette�laces her boots, and so forth."

  "Tilette, be fiddled!" said Mrs Hackit, with indignant boldness of metaphor;

  "an' there's that poor thing a-sewing her fingers to the bone for them

  children�an' another comin' on. What she must have to go through! It goes to my

  heart to turn my back on her. But she's i' the wrong to let herself be put upon

  a' that manner."

  "Ah! I was talking to Mrs Farquhar about that the other day. She said, 'I think

  Mrs Barton a v-e-r-y w-e-a-k w-o-m-a-n.'" (Mr Pilgrim gave this quotation with

  slow emphasis, as if he thought Mrs Farquhar had uttered a remarkable

  sentiment.) "They find it impossible to invite her to their house while she has

  that equivocal person staying with her."

  "Well!" remarked Miss Gibbs, "if I was a wife, nothing should induce me to bear

  what Mrs Barton does."

  "Yes, it's fine talking," said Mrs Patten, from her pillow; "old maids' husbands

  are al'ys well managed. If you was a wife you'd be as foolish as your betters,

  belike."

  "All my wonder is," observed Mrs Hackit, "how the Bartons make both ends meet.

  You may depend on't she's got nothing to give 'em; for I understand as he's been

  havin' money from some clergy charity. They said at fust as she stuffed Mr

  Barton wi' notions about her writing to the Chancellor an'her fine friends, to

  give him a living. Howiver, I don't know what's true an' what's false. Mr Barton

  keeps away from our house now, for I gev him a bit o' my mind one day. Maybe

  he's ashamed of himself. He seems to me to look dreadful thin an' harassed of a

  Sunday."

  "O, he must be aware he's getting into bad odour everywhere. The clergy are

  quite disgusted with his folly. They say Carpe would be glad to get Barton out

  of the curacy if he could; but he can't do that without coming to Shepperton

  himself, as Barton's a licensed curate; and he wouldn't like that, I suppose."

  At this moment Mrs patten showed signs of uneasiness, which recalled Mr Pilgrim

  to professional attentions; and Mrs Hackit, observing that it was Thursday, and

  she must see after the butter, said good-by, promising to look in again soon,

  and bring her knitting.

  This Thursday, by the by, is the first in the month�the day on which the

  Clerical Meeting is held at Milby Vicarage; and as the Rev. Amos Barton has

  reasons for not attending, he will very likely be a subject of conversation

  amongst his clerical brethren. Suppose we go there, and hear whether Mr Pilgrim

  has reported their opinion correctly.

  There is not a numerous party to-day, for it is a season of sore throats and

  catarrhs; so that the exegetical and theological discussions, which are the

  preliminary of dining, have not been quite so spirited as usual; and although a

  question relative to the Epistle of Jude has not been quite cleared up, the

  striking of six by the church clock, and the simultaneous announcement of

  dinner, are sounds that no one feels to be importunate.

  Pleasant (when one is not in the least bilious) to enter a comfortable

  dining-room, where the closely-drawn red curtains glow with the double light of

  fire and candle, where glass and silver are glittering on the pure damask, and a

  soup-tureen gives a hint of the fragrance that will presently rush out to

  inundate your hungry senses, and prepare them, by the delicate visitation of

  atoms, for the keen gusto of ampler contact! Especially if you have confidence

  in the dinner-giving capacity of your host�if you know that he is not a man who

  entertains grovelling views of eating and drinking as a mere satisfaction of

  hunger and thirst, and, dead to all the finer influences of the palate, expects

  his guest to be brilliant on ill-flavoured gravies and the cheapest Marsala. Mr

  Ely was particularly worthy of such confidence, and his virtues as an Amphitryon

  had probably contributed quite as much as the central situation of Milby to the

  selection of his house as a clerical rendezvous. He looks particularly graceful

  at the head of his table, and, indeed, on all occasions where he acts as

  president or moderator�a man who seems to listen well, and is an excellent

  amalgam of dissimilar ingredients.

  At the other end of the table, as "Vice," sits Mr Fellowes, rector and

  magistrate, a man of imposing appearance, with a mellifluous voice and the

  readiest of tongues. Mr Fellowes once obtained a living by the persuasive charms

  of his conversation,
and the fluency with which he interpreted the opinions of

  an obese and stammering baronet, so as to give that elderly gentleman a very

  pleasing perception of his own wisdom. Mr Fellowes is a very successful man, and

  has the highest character everywhere except in his own parish, where, doubtless

  because his parishioners happen to be quarrelsome people, he is always at fierce

  feud with a farmer or two, a colliery proprietor, a grocer who was once

  churchwarden, and a tailor who formerly officiated as clerk.

  At Mr Ely's right hand you see a very small man with a sallow and somewhat puffy

  face, whose hair is brushed straight up, evidently with the intention of giving

  him a height somewhat less disproportionate to his sense of his own importance

  than the measure of five feet three accorded him by an oversight of nature. This

  is the Rev. Archibald Duke, a very dyspeptic and evangelical man, who takes the

  gloomiest view of mankind and their prospects, and thinks the immense sale of

  the "Pickwick Papers," recently completed, one of the strongest proofs of

  original sin. Unfortunately, though Mr Duke was not burdened with a family, his

  yearly expenditure was apt considerably to exceed his income; and the unpleasant

  circumstances resulting from this, together with heavy meat breakfasts, may

  probably have contributed to his desponding views of the world generally.

  Next to him is seated Mr Furness, a tall young man, with blond hair and

  whiskers, who was plucked at Cambridge entirely owing to his genius; at least, I

  know that he soon afterwards published a volume of poems, which were considered

  remarkably beautiful by many young ladies of his acquaintance. Mr Furness

  preached his own sermons, as any one of tolerable critical acumen might have

  certified by comparing them with his poems: in both, there was an exuberance of

  metaphor and simile entirely original, and not in the least borrowed from any

  resemblance in the things compared.

  On Mr Furness's left you see Mr Pugh, another young curate, of much less marked

  characteristics. He had not published any poems; he had not even been plucked;

  he had neat black whiskers and a pale complexion; read prayers and a sermon

  twice every Sunday, and might be seen any day sallying forth on his parochial

  duties in a white tie, a well-brushed hat, a perfect suit of black, and

  well-polished boots�an equipment which he probably supposed hieroglyphically to

  represent the spirit of Christianity to the parishioners of Whittlecombe.

  Mr Pugh's vis-�-vis is the Rev. Martin Cleves, a man about forty�middle-sized,

  broad-shouldered, with a negligently-tied cravat, large irregular features, and

  a large head, thickly covered with lanky brown hair. To a superficial glance, Mr

  Cleves is the plainest and least clerical-looking of the party; yet, strange to

  say, there is the true parish priest, the pastor beloved, consulted, relied on

  by his flock; a clergyman who is not associated with the undertaker, but thought

  of as the surest helper under a difficulty, as a monitor who is encouraging

  rather than severe. Mr Cleves has the wonderful art of preaching sermons which

  the wheelwright and the blacksmith can understand; not because he talks

  condescending twaddle, but because he can call a spade a spade, and knows how to

  disencumber ideas of their wordy frippery. Look at him more attentively, and you

  will see that his face is a very interesting one�that there is a great deal of

  humour and feeling playing in his grey eyes, and about the corners of his

  roughly cut mouth:�a man, you observe, who has most likely sprung from the

  harder-working section of the middle class, and has hereditary sympathies with

  the checkered life of the people. He gets together the working men in his parish

  on a Monday evening, and gives them a sort of conversational lecture on useful

  practical matters, telling them stories, or reading some select passages from an

  agreeable book, and commenting on them; and if you were to ask the first

  labourer or artisan in Tripplegate what sort of man the parson was, he would

  say,�"a uncommon knowin', sensable, free-spoken gentleman; very kind an'

  good-natur'd too." Yet for all this, he is perhaps the best Grecian of the

  party, if we except Mr Baird, the young man on his left.

  Mr Baird has since gained considerable celebrity as an original writer and

  metropolitan lecturer, but at that time he used to preach in a little church

  something like a barn, to a congregation consisting of three rich farmers and

  their servants, about fifteen labourers, and the due proportion of women and

  children. The rich farmers understood him to be "very high learnt;" but if you

  had interrogated them for a more precise description, they would have said that

  he was "a thinnish-faced man, with a sort o' cast in his eye, like."

  Seven, altogether: a delightful number for a dinner-party, supposing the units

  to be delightful, but everything depends on that. During dinner Mr Fellowes took

  the lead in the conversation, which set strongly in the direction of

  mangold-wurzel and the rotation of crops; for Mr Fellowes and Mr Cleves

  cultivated their own glebes. Mr Ely, too, had some agricultural notions, and

  even the Rev. Archibald Duke was made alive to that class of mundane subjects by

  the possession of some potato-ground. The two young curates talked a little

  aside during these discussions, which had imperfect interest for their

  unbeneficed minds; and the transcendental and near-sighted Mr Baird seemed to

  listen somewhat abstractedly, knowing little more of potatoes and mangoldwurzel

  than that they were some form of the "Conditioned."

  "What a hobby farming is with Lord Watling!" said Mr Fellowes, when the cloth

  was being drawn. "I went over his farm at Tetterley with him last summer. It is

  really a model farm; first-rate dairy, grazing and wheat land, and such splendid

  farm-buildings! An expensive hobby, though. He sinks a good deal of money there,

  I fancy. He has a great whim for black cattle, and he sends that drunken old

  Scotch bailiff of his to Scotland every year, with hundreds in his pocket, to

  buy these beasts."

  "By the by," said Mr Ely, "do you know who is the man to whom Lord Watling has

  given the Bramhill living?"

  "A man named Sargent. I knew him at Oxford. His brother is a lawyer, and was

  very useful to Lord Watling in that ugly Brounsell affair. That's why Sargent

  got the living."

  "Sargent," said Mr Ely. "I know him. Isn't he a showy talkative fellow; has

  written travels in Mesopotamia, or something or that sort?"

  "That's the man."

  "He was at Witherington once, as Bagshawe's curate. He got into rather bad odour

  there, through some scandal about a flirtation, I think."

  "Talking of scandal," returned Mr Fellowes, "have you heard the last story about

  Barton? Nisbett was telling me the other day that he dines alone with the

  Countess at six, while Mrs Barton is in the kitchen acting as cook."

  "Rather an apocryphal authority, Nisbett," said Mr Ely.

  "Ah," said Mr Cleves, with good-natured humour twinkling in his eyes, "depend

  upon it, that is a corrupt version. The original text is,
that they all dined

  together with six�meaning six children�and that Mrs Barton is an excellent

  cook."

  "I wish dining alone together may be the worst of that sad business," said the

  Rev. Archibald Duke, in a tone implying that his wish was a strong figure of

  speech.

  "Well," said Mr Fellowes, filling his glass and looking jocose, "Barton is

  certainly either the greatest gull in existence, or he has some cunning

  secret,�some philtre or other to make himself charming in the eyes of a fair

  lady. It isn't all of us that can make conquests when our ugliness is past its

  bloom."

  "The lady seemed to have made a conquest of him at the very outset," said Mr

  Ely. "I was immensely amused one night at Granby's, when he was telling us her

  story about her husband's adventures. He said, 'When she told me the tale, I

  felt I don't know how,�I felt it from the crown of my head to the sole of my

  feet.'"

  Mr Ely gave these words dramatically, imitating the Rev. Amos's fervour and

  symbolic action, and every one laughed except Mr Duke, whose after-dinner view

  of things was not apt to be jovial. He said,�

  "I think some of us ought to remonstrate with Mr Barton on the scandal he is

  causing. He is not only imperilling his own soul, but the souls of his flock."

  "Depend upon it," said Mr Cleves, "there is some simple explanation of the whole

  affair, if we only happened to know it. Barton has always impressed me as a

  right-minded man, who has the knack of doing himself injustice by his manner."

  "Now I never liked Barton," said Mr Fellowes. "He's not a gentleman. Why, he

  used to be on terms of intimacy with that canting Prior, who died a little while

  ago;�a fellow who soaked himself with spirits, and talked of the Gospel through

  an inflamed nose."

  "The Countess has given him more refined tastes, I dare say," said Mr Ely.

  "Well," observed Mr Cleves, "the poor fellow must have a hard pull to get along,

  with his small income and large family. Let us hope the Countess does something

  towards making the pot boil."

  "Not she," said Mr Duke; "there are greater signs of poverty about them than

  ever."

  "Well, come," returned Mr Cleves, who could be caustic sometimes, and who was

  not at all fond of his reverend brother, Mr Duke, "that's something in Barton's

  favour at all events. He might be poor without showing signs of poverty."

  Mr Duke turned rather yellow, which was his way of blushing, and Mr Ely came to

  his relief by observing,�

  "They're making a very good piece of work of Shepperton Church. Dolby, the

  architect, who has it in hand, is a very clever fellow."

  "It's he who has been doing Coppleton Church," said Mr Furness. "They've got it

  in excellent order for the visitation."

  This mention of the visitation suggested the Bishop, and thus opened a wide

  duct, which entirely diverted the stream of animadversion from that small

  pipe�that capillary vessel, the Rev. Amos Barton.

  The talk of the clergy about their Bishop belongs to the esoteric part of their

  profession; so we will at once quit the dining-room at Milby Vicarage, lest we

  should happen to overhear remarks unsuited to the lay understanding, and perhaps

  dangerous to our repose of mind.

  CHAPTER VII.

  I dare say the long residence of the Countess Czerlaski at Shepperton Vicarage

  is very puzzling to you also, dear reader, as well as to Mr Barton's clerical

  brethren; the more so, as I hope you are not in the least inclined to put that

  very evil interpretation on it which evidently found acceptance with the sallow

  and dyspeptic Mr Duke, and with the florid and highly peptic Mr Fellowes. You

  have seen enough, I trust, of the Rev. Amos Barton, to be convinced that he was

  more apt to fall into a blunder than into a sin�more apt to be deceived than to

  incur a necessity for being deceitful: and if you have a keen eye for