THE CHURCH





“Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?” asked Miss

Murray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement

of our duties.



“I can scarcely tell,” was my reply: “I have not even heard him

preach.”



“Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?”



“Yes, but I cannot pretend to judge of a man’s character by a single

cursory glance at his face.”



“But isn’t he ugly?”



“He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don’t dislike that

cast of countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about

him was his style of reading; which appeared to me good—infinitely

better, at least, than Mr. Hatfield’s. He read the Lessons as if he

were bent on giving full effect to every passage; it seemed as if the

most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most

ignorant have failed to understand; and the prayers he read as if he

were not reading at all, but praying earnestly and sincerely from his

own heart.”



“Oh, yes, that’s all he is good for: he can plod through the service

well enough; but he has not a single idea beyond it.”



“How do you know?”



“Oh! I know perfectly well; I am an excellent judge in such matters.

Did you see how he went out of church? stumping along—as if there were

nobody there but himself—never looking to the right hand or the left,

and evidently thinking of nothing but just getting out of the church,

and, perhaps, home to his dinner: his great stupid head could contain

no other idea.”



“I suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the squire’s pew,”

said I, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility.



“Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do such

a thing!” replied she, haughtily tossing her head; then, after a

moment’s reflection, she added—“Well, well! I suppose he’s good enough

for his place: but I’m glad I’m not dependent on _him_ for

amusement—that’s all. Did you see how Mr. Hatfield hurried out to get a

bow from me, and be in time to put us into the carriage?”



“Yes,” answered I; internally adding, “and I thought it somewhat

derogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit

in such eager haste to shake hands with the squire, and hand his wife

and daughters into their carriage: and, moreover, I owe him a grudge

for nearly shutting me out of it”; for, in fact, though I was standing

before his face, close beside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he

would persist in putting them up and closing the door, till one of the

family stopped him by calling out that the governess was not in yet;

then, without a word of apology, he departed, wishing them

good-morning, and leaving the footman to finish the business.



_Nota bene_.—Mr. Hatfield never spoke to me, neither did Sir Hugh or

Lady Meltham, nor Mr. Harry or Miss Meltham, nor Mr. Green or his

sisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that church:

nor, in fact, any one that visited at Horton Lodge.



Miss Murray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself

and her sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves

in the garden; and besides, she believed Harry Meltham would be at

church. “For,” said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the

glass, “he has been a most exemplary attendant at church these last few

Sundays: you would think he was quite a good Christian. And you may go

with us, Miss Grey: I want you to see him; he is so greatly improved

since he returned from abroad—you can’t think! And besides, then you

will have an opportunity of seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston again, and

of hearing him preach.”



I did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical

truth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner,

and the clearness and force of his style. It was truly refreshing to

hear such a sermon, after being so long accustomed to the dry, prosy

discourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues

of the rector. Mr. Hatfield would come sailing up the aisle, or rather

sweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying behind

him and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a

conqueror ascending his triumphal car; then, sinking on the velvet

cushion in an attitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration

for a certain time; then mutter over a Collect, and gabble through the

Lord’s Prayer, rise, draw off one bright lavender glove, to give the

congregation the benefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his

fingers through his well-curled hair, flourish a cambric handkerchief,

recite a very short passage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of Scripture,

as a head-piece to his discourse, and, finally, deliver a composition

which, as a composition, might be considered good, though far too

studied and too artificial to be pleasing to me: the propositions were

well laid down, the arguments logically conducted; and yet, it was

sometimes hard to listen quietly throughout, without some slight

demonstrations of disapproval or impatience.



His favourite subjects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies,

apostolical succession, the duty of reverence and obedience to the

clergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the absolute necessity of

observing all the forms of godliness, the reprehensible presumption of

individuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected

with religion, or to be guided by their own interpretations of

Scripture, and, occasionally (to please his wealthy parishioners) the

necessity of deferential obedience from the poor to the rich—supporting

his maxims and exhortations throughout with quotations from the

Fathers: with whom he appeared to be far better acquainted than with

the Apostles and Evangelists, and whose importance he seemed to

consider at least equal to theirs. But now and then he gave us a sermon

of a different order—what some would call a very good one; but sunless

and severe: representing the Deity as a terrible taskmaster rather than

a benevolent father. Yet, as I listened, I felt inclined to think the

man was sincere in all he said: he must have changed his views, and

become decidedly religious, gloomy and austere, yet still devout. But

such illusions were usually dissipated, on coming out of church, by

hearing his voice in jocund colloquy with some of the Melthams or

Greens, or, perhaps, the Murrays themselves; probably laughing at his

own sermon, and hoping that he had given the rascally people something

to think about; perchance, exulting in the thought that old Betty

Holmes would now lay aside the sinful indulgence of her pipe, which had

been her daily solace for upwards of thirty years: that George Higgins

would be frightened out of his Sabbath evening walks, and Thomas

Jackson would be sorely troubled in his conscience, and shaken in his

sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day.



Thus, I could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those who

“bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them upon men’s

shoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their

fingers”; and who “make the word of God of none effect by their

traditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.” I was well

pleased to observe that the new curate resembled him, as far as I could

see, in none of these particulars.



“Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of him now?” said Miss Murray, as

we took our places in the carriage after service.



“No harm still,” replied I.



“No harm!” repeated she in amazement. “What do you mean?”



“I mean, I think no worse of him than I did before.”



“No worse! I should think not indeed—quite the contrary! Is he not

greatly improved?”



“Oh, yes; very much indeed,” replied I; for I had now discovered that

it was Harry Meltham she meant, not Mr. Weston. That gentleman had

eagerly come forward to speak to the young ladies: a thing he would

hardly have ventured to do had their mother been present; he had

likewise politely handed them into the carriage. He had not attempted

to shut me out, like Mr. Hatfield; neither, of course, had he offered

me his assistance (I should not have accepted it, if he had), but as

long as the door remained open he had stood smirking and chatting with

them, and then lifted his hat and departed to his own abode: but I had

scarcely noticed him all the time. My companions, however, had been

more observant; and, as we rolled along, they discussed between them

not only his looks, words, and actions, but every feature of his face,

and every article of his apparel.



“You shan’t have him all to yourself, Rosalie,” said Miss Matilda at

the close of this discussion; “I like him: I know he’d make a nice,

jolly companion for me.”



“Well, you’re quite welcome to him, Matilda,” replied her sister, in a

tone of affected indifference.



“And I’m sure,” continued the other, “he admires me quite as much as he

does you; doesn’t he, Miss Grey?”



“I don’t know; I’m not acquainted with his sentiments.”



“Well, but he _does_ though.”



“My _dear_ Matilda! nobody will ever admire you till you get rid of

your rough, awkward manners.”



“Oh, stuff! Harry Meltham likes such manners; and so do papa’s

friends.”



“Well, you _may_ captivate old men, and younger sons; but nobody else,

I am sure, will ever take a fancy to you.”



“I don’t care: I’m not always grabbing after money, like you and mamma.

If my husband is able to keep a few good horses and dogs, I shall be

quite satisfied; and all the rest may go to the devil!”



“Well, if you use such shocking expressions, I’m sure no real gentleman

will ever venture to come near you. Really, Miss Grey, you should not

let her do so.”



“I can’t possibly prevent it, Miss Murray.”



“And you’re quite mistaken, Matilda, in supposing that Harry Meltham

admires you: I assure you he does nothing of the kind.”



Matilda was beginning an angry reply; but, happily, our journey was now

at an end; and the contention was cut short by the footman opening the

carriage-door, and letting down the steps for our descent.