Thorne Guy
A Lost Cause
CHAPTER VIII
A PRIVATE CONFERENCE AT MIDNIGHT A YEAR LATER
It was late at night in Father Blantyre's study at Hornham. King and Stephens had gone to bed, but the vicar sat with Dr. Hibbert, his churchwarden.
Both men were smoking. By the side of the doctor stood a modest peg of whiskey; the priest contented himself with a glass of soda-water. The candles by which the room was lighted showed that Mr. Blantyre's face was very worn and weary. He seemed a man who was passing through a time of stress and storm. The bronzed countenance of the doctor wore its usual aspect of serenity and strength. Both men had been talking together earnestly for a great part of the night. A true and intimate friendship obtained between them, and it was a plan that fortnightly they should meet thus and make confidences to each other about that which they held so dear.
"It is just a year," Blantyre said, "since Hamlyn committed his first sacrilege in our own church."
"The time goes very fast," Hibbert answered, "yet look at the changes! The man has become almost a power in the land, or at least he seems to be. It is his talent for organisation. It's supreme. Look how this wretched 'League' has grown. It has its spies and agents everywhere, its committee has names of importance among its members, the amount of money that rolls into Hamlyn's coffers must be very large."
"I'm afraid so. But think of the turmoil and unrest one man can create – the misery and pain churchmen feel every day now as they see the jocose blasphemies of these people and see the holiest things held up to an utterly vulgar and soulless ridicule. It's a wrong thought, Hibbert, perhaps, but I do sometimes long to be out of it all, to start afresh on such new work as God may give one in another life!"
"Such a thought comes to all of us at times, of course. But it's physical mainly. It's merely a languor of overstrain and a weak nervous state. You know yourself how such thoughts come chiefly at night, and how after your tub, in the morning light and air they all go."
"Materialist! But you're right, Hibbert, quite right."
"You go on taking the physic I've sent you and you'll pick up soon. But, of course, this is a very trying time. The parish is in a constant turmoil. These Sunday evening Protestant meetings when folk are coming out of church are a bad nuisance. That's a new move, too."
"Yes. They found that the hooligan riot-provoking business was very simply dealt with, and so they are trying this. It is that poor, silly old creature, Miss Pritchett. The Hamlyns are hand and glove with her. I suppose she is sincere, poor old lady! I hope so. She was an ardent Catholic, and I hope she does honestly believe in the new substitute for the Faith. I am very sorry for her."
"I'm less charitable, Blantyre; she's a spiteful old cat. I am not violating any professional confidence in telling you that she won't live long if she goes on living in the thick of this noisy Protestant agitation. I do my best for her, of course, but she won't do as she's told."
"She's a nuisance," the vicar said, "but I hope she won't go yet. I should like to make friends with her before she dies. And I should like her to die in the Faith."
"She won't do that, I'm afraid, Blantyre. She has gone too far away from the Church. But, now, what do you honestly think the effect of this Luther crusading business has been on the Church."
"Well, I think there can be no doubt of that. I was talking it over with Lord Huddersfield last week and we both agreed. The Church has gained enormously. People who were simply attracted by ceremonial and what was novel to them have gone out, in a restless endeavour to find some new thing. But that is all. Our congregations here, our communicants, have grown very much. There is a deeper spiritual fervour among us, I am sure of it. No churchman has taken Hamlyn seriously for a moment. He has failed in every attempt he has made to interfere with our teaching or our ceremonial, failed absolutely. All his legal cases have fallen through, or proved abortive, or are dragging on towards extinction. The days of ritual prosecutions are utterly dead. All the harm Hamlyn has done the Church itself is to weary our ears and hearts with a great noise and tumult, with floods of empty talk. He has stung our nerves, he hasn't penetrated to any vital part."
"Yes, that is so. It needs more than the bellowings of such a man, more than the hostility of people who are not members of the Church, to hurt her in any serious degree. The man and his friends have a large rabble behind them, but they can only parade through the streets of England beating their drums and rattling their collecting boxes. The Church is safe."
"It is. And yet in another way, all this business is doing fearful harm to the morale of the country, limited though it may be. The mass of non-Christian people who might be gathered into the Church are looking down upon these unseemly contests with a sneer. They feel that there can be little good or truth in a system of philosophy which seems to them to be nothing but an arena of brawling fools. Therein comes the harm. Hamlyn isn't injuring church people, he is giving contraband of war to infidelity. And just at this particular moment in the world's history this is extremely dangerous. In thirty years, the danger will have passed away; to-day, it is great."
"And why particularly at this moment?"
"Why, because the world is utterly changing with extraordinary rapidity. That world which once adjusted itself so sweetly to our faith is vanishing, is gone. The new world which is arriving is unassimilated, unsorted, unexplained. The light hasn't entered it yet, it doesn't know how to correspond. The trouble lies in that. The new politics, science, philosophy, art, are only social habits. And these will not talk our language yet, or confess Christ. And this squabble and turmoil will retard the new adjustment for years, because outsiders won't even trouble to examine our claims or make experience of our system. And people are glad of any excuse to ignore or at least avoid Christianity. You see, a new religion has sprung up."
"Yes – go on."
"It is the religion of pleasure, excitement, nervous thrill bought at any cost. Renan, who had eyes and used them, saw that. He has given us the hint in his Abbess of Jouarre. 'Were the human race quite certain,' he says, 'that in two or three days the world would come to an end, the instinct of pleasure' —l'amour is his word – 'would break out into a sort of frenzy; in the presence of death, sure and sudden, nature alone would speak, and very strange scenes would follow. The social order is preserved by restraint; but restraint depends upon a belief in a hereafter.' And already, 'If a man dies, shall he live again?' is the burden of a new soliloquy on the lips of a new Hamlet. Faith is becoming more and more an act, a habit, of heroism. So you see the harm Hamlyn and his gang are indirectly doing. But do you know where it seems to me the great counteracting influence to his work lies at the moment?"
"Where?"
"You will wonder to hear me say so, but I firmly think for the moment it lies in the ranks, and true love of our Lord, of the pious Evangelical Party in the Church! They are Catholic without knowing it. They think, and think sincerely, that the forms the Church has appointed, some of her Sacraments even, obscure the soul's direct communion with God. They are not in line with us yet. But there is a sterling and vivid Christianity among them. There is a personal adoration of Jesus which is strong and sweet, a living, wonderful thing. And, you see, all this section of the Church is exempt from the attacks of the extreme Protestants – who seem themselves to have hardly any Christianity at all. Nor do the really pious Evangelicals approve of this civil war. They won't be mixed up in it. They are far too busy doing good works and preparing themselves for the next world to join in these rowdy processions of the shallow, the ill-informed, or the malevolent. They don't approve of us, of course, but they have no public quarrel with what they see is substantially powerful for good. Since Hamlyn's brigade has been throwing mud at us, and we, of course, have defended ourselves to the best of our ability, the minds of those who are eager to justify their adhesion to the religion of pleasure cannot, at least if they have any logic or sincerity, avoid a consideration of the quiet Evangelicals."
"It is a new idea to me," said the doctor, refilling his pipe, "but I suppose you are right. They despise the whole business of agitation, and yet don't make it a pretext as the rationalists are glad to do. The whole thing is a miserable business! What annoys me, Vicar, is the facility with which a rowdy, ignorant man of the lower classes has been able to make himself a force."
"It is hard. But one must remember that however sincere he is – and I know nothing against his personal character – he only appeals to the ignorant and rowdy. Have you seen his new leaflet?"
"No, I think not. What is it?"
"It came by post last night; apparently the whole district is being circularised. Really, the thing is quite a curiosity. I will read you a few paragraphs."
He opened a drawer and took a small pamphlet from it, which was headed "The Hornham Scandal." "Listen to this:
"'At St. Elwyn's, Hornham,' writes a lady member of the Luther League, 'I recently attended the so-called "High Mass." There were three priests in vestments; there were eight candles burning at eleven o'clock on the altar; there was incense and all the appurtenances of a Roman Mass; the men bore that ignorant and unwashed appearance which is commonly to be seen at any time in an Italian church. At times they crossed themselves, but often they seemed to forget, and then suddenly to remember. I stayed as long as I could, but it was not long, for I was sick at heart at the thought of what our country is being mercilessly dragged into, and that it is for services of this description that we hear from time to time our foolish girls exclaim, "How I hate the name of Protestant."'"
"Elegant style," said the doctor dryly, "but to call our congregation 'unwashed' is not only perfectly untrue, but a little touch of feminine spite that shows the spirit in which these crusades are carried on. I wonder how many of the five thousand were unwashed when our Lord fed them!"
"That is a quotation," said the vicar, "now hear the robuster prose of the great Hamlyn himself:
"'It appears that there are literally no lengths of lawlessness, ecclesiastical insubordination, blasphemous poperies, or unscriptural profanation of places of worship to which Ritualistic innovators will not proceed. Among other Romanising acts of the vicar of St. Elwyn's, the notorious "Father" Blantyre, is a direction to some of his congregation who attend the Lord's Supper. These members have taken the bread from him – or rather the superstitious wafer which is substituted for bread – with the thumb and finger. "Oh, no," says our priest, "you must hold out your hand for it." These are the "instructions" of "Father" Blantyre to those about to attend the Lord's Supper for the first time after confirmation:
"'As soon as the priest comes up to you, hold up your hands as high as the chin, so that he may place the Blessed Sacrament in your hand while he says the words, The Body of our Lord.
"'But we ask our Protestant brethren how, if the minister – falsely called "priest" – places the bread in the hand of the communicant, how the latter can comply with the direction "take this"? Let England awake to this "priestly" and insidious Popish plan.'"
"Well!" said the doctor, "of all the – " Words failed him.
"Isn't it vulgar and childish!" said the vicar, "but how admirably adapted to suit the ignorant folk who will read it. The adroit substitution of a colloquial use of the word 'take' for its real meaning of 'receive'! And then the continual effort to degrade the Mass, to rob it of its mystery and holy character – it's clever, it's subtle. Hamlyn is a man of parts!"
"Is there any more?"
"Oh, yes, plenty. So far I have only read the mildest parts. Here is a distorted simile which I should hardly have thought even Hamlyn would have printed. It is painful to read:
"'One of our Luther Lecturers recently asked a poor, deluded young female who is in the habit of attending the pantomime at St. Elwyn's why she went there. The poor, deluded creature replied – doubtless with words put into her mouth by her "Father Confessor" – that its "spirituality" and "devotion" attracted her. Ah! Rome and Ritualism have ever known how to appear as a pure and modest virgin, even when rotting (to use the image of the Holy Spirit in the Word) with fornication. O foolish young woman! How have you been bewitched with these sorceries? A clean thing is to be got of an unclean thing!'"
The doctor ground his teeth. "I wish we'd had the man in the regiment!" he said. "Unclean! I'd have cleaned the brute!"
The vicar sighed. "Of course it doesn't really matter," he said. "This sort of stuff carries its own condemnation with it. Still it is most distressing. It does wound one deeply to hear the highest and holiest things spoken of in this way. All my people feel it. Some of them – poor things – have come to me weeping to hear such words – weeping for shame and sorrow. Here is the last paragraph. The pamphlet concludes with a fine flow of rhetoric, and an invitation to me:
"'The late Dr. Parker said: "Popery is the vilest blasphemy out of hell. It is the enemy of liberty; it is the enemy of intelligence; it is the enemy of individuality, of conscience, and responsibility; it is the supreme wickedness of the world, the master effort of the devil."
"'And so say we. Therefore, honest, English, Protestant people of Hornham, look to it that these doings in your midst are put down with a stern hand. A great meeting of ratepayers will shortly be held in the Victoria Hall under the auspices of the Luther League. A lecture, with lime-light views, will be delivered on the cloaked and hooded Popery that stalks in our midst. An invitation will be extended to "Fathers" Blantyre, King, and Stephens, the "Priests" of St. Elwyn's church, who will be accommodated with seats upon the platform if they care to come. We of the Luther League invite them to public controversy, to an open debate upon the great questions at issue. Will they be present? Time will show.'"
Hibbert rose. "Well, it's time we were in bed," he said. "Good-night. I should think over that sporting offer of Hamlyn's if I were you. A public appearance might do good. I like a fight."
"I doubt it," the vicar answered; "still, it may be worth considering. One never knows. One doesn't want people to say that one is afraid."
"Good-night, Vicar."
"Good-night, Hibbert. Forget all about these surface worries and sleep well."
The vicar was left alone.
He took a letter from his pocket. It was from Lucy, who wrote from Park Lane. In the letter, she said that she purposed – if he would care to have her – to come down to Hornham at once and spend some months at the clergy-house.
"If you can put up with a girl for a time in your bachelor stronghold! I'm sick to death of this life; it has lost all its attractions for me. I want to live, not play, and you, my dear old boy, will show me the way. A letter is no way – for me – to tell you of my thoughts. But higher things than of old are working in me. St. Elwyn's calls me, it seems home; I so often think of the big quiet church and the ceaseless activity that centres round it. I long for the peace there! I have much to tell you, much to consult you about, and I am beginning to wonder why I have left you alone so long. Good-night, dear."
Putting down the letter, he looked at the clock. It was now far after midnight, and he stayed the hand that was about to raise the glass that stood on the table beside him.
In a few hours it would be dawn, the dawn when in the dim hour he daily went to meet the Lord in the Eucharist. How wonderful that was! What unending joy the break of day had for this good man, as he began the ancient and mysterious rite of the Church! There, there, beside the altar, there was peace! In this desert world, that was so far from Home, there was always that daily glimpse into the Unseen, that Communion in which dead friends and great angels joined, when the Paraclete came to the weary, sinful hearts of men like fire, when our Lord in his risen majesty came to the world to hearten his soldiers, to fill his toiling saints with power to continue to the end.
If only the whole world knew and realised this! Sometimes the priest thought with simple wonder, that if only men knew, all trouble and sorrow would be over. To him the material world was the unreal place, the dream, the fable. Daily he knew that the Unseen was ever near, close, close! – how blind and sorrowful the world was, that did not know or care for Jesus.
He knelt down now to say his prayers. He prayed for the Church, his congregation, for his sister, and his friends. Then he prayed that he might be worthy to receive the Blessed Sacrament at dawn.
And then, happy, comforted, and at peace, with the certainty of an unseen glory all round him, with august watchers to shield him through the night, he sought his couch and slept a deep, dreamless sleep with crossed hands.
"From henceforth let no man trouble me: for I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus."
CHAPTER IX
A UNION OF FORCES
In Hornham, the vast majority of a poor and teeming population was quite without interest in any religious matter. The chapels of the various sects were attended by the residuum, the congregations at St. Elwyn's were large – to the full holding capacity of the mother church and the smaller mission building – and a fair proportion of people worshipped at St. Luke's, the only other church in the neighbourhood.
Mr. Carr, the vicar of St. Luke's, was a man of about thirty-five. He had taken a good degree at Cambridge, spent a few years in various curacies, and had been appointed vicar of St. Luke's, Hornham, which was in the gift of an Evangelical body known as Simon's Trustees, about four years before Mr. Hamlyn had thrown Hornham into its present state of religious war.
The vicar of St. Luke's was a man of considerable mental power. He was unmarried, had no private means, and lived a lonely, though active, life in his small and ill-built vicarage. In appearance, he was tall, somewhat thin, and he wore a pointed, close-cropped beard and moustache. His face was somewhat melancholy, but when he was moved or interested, the smile that came upon it was singularly sweet. In the ordinary business of life, he was reserved and shy. He had none of the genial Irish bonhomie of Blantyre, the wholesome breezy boyishness of Stephens, or the grim force of King. He had a "personality" – to the eye – but he failed to sustain the impression his appearance made in talk. He was of no use in a drawing-room and very nearly a failure in any social gathering. Those few members of his flock with whom, now and again, he had to enter into purely social relations, said of him: "Mr. Carr is a thorough gentleman, but the poor fellow is dreadfully shy. He wants a wife; perhaps she'd liven him up a bit."
Such was the man in private life. In his clerical duties, as a priest – or, as he would have put it, a pastor – his personal character was sunk and merged in his office as completely as that of Father Blantyre himself. His sermons were full of earnest exhortation, his private ministrations were fervent and helpful, and there was a power in his ministry that was felt by all with whom he came in contact.
He was distinctly and entirely what is known as an "Evangelical," using that fine word in the best and noblest sense. He belonged to a school of thought which is rapidly becoming merged in and overlapped by others, sometimes to its betterment, but more frequently to its destruction, but which standing by itself is a powerful force.
He did not realise the state of transition in which he and other men of his school must necessarily stand to-day. Their position, admirable as it often is, is but a compromise. He did not as yet realise this.
Of Blantyre and the people at St. Elwyn's he knew little or nothing. He had met the clergy there once or twice upon official occasions, but that was all. He was too busy with his own work to have much time to attend to that of other people, but he had the natural distaste of his school and bringing-up for ceremonial and teaching of which he had no experience, and merely regarded as foreign, anti-English, and on the whole dangerous.
He was not a bigot, and the leading feature in his religion was this: He assigned an absolute supremacy to Holy Scripture as the only rule of faith and practice, the only test of truth, the only judge of controversy. He did not think that there was any guide for man's soul co-equal or co-ordinate with the Bible. He did not care to accept such statements as "the Church says so," "primitive antiquity says so," or "the Councils and the Fathers also say so," – unless it could be shown to his satisfaction that what is said is in harmony with Scripture.
Disregarding as superfluous all external and "vicarious" form in religion, he attached paramount importance to the work and office of our Lord, and the highest place to the inward work of the Holy Spirit in the heart of man. And he attached tremendous importance to the outward and visible work of the Holy Ghost in the heart of man. His supreme belief was that the true grace of God is a thing that will always make itself manifest in the behaviour, tastes, ways, and choices, of him who has it. He thought, therefore, that it was illogical to tell men that they are "children of God, and members of Christ, and heirs of the kingdom of Heaven" unless they had really overcome the world, the flesh, and the devil. But he could not be stern or menacing in his dealings with souls. The mercy of God was more in his thoughts, always and at all times, than the wrath and judgment of God.
His attitude toward the pressing questions that were agitating the Church of England, all over England, was in logical correspondence with his beliefs. There was much within the Church that he had not understood or realised as yet, but he was no Hamlyn, to break down and destroy all that has made the Church of England what it is.
He neither undervalued the Church nor thought lightly of her privileges. In sincere and loyal attachment to her, he would give place to none. His apprehension of churchmanship was limited, that was all.
Nor did he – as far as he knew – under-value the Christian ministry. He looked upon it as a high and honourable office instituted by Christ Himself, and on priests as God's ambassadors, God's messengers, God's stewards and overseers. Nevertheless he looked upon what he knew as "sacerdotalism" and "priestcraft" with unfeigned dislike and uneasiness.
He believed in baptism as the appointed means of regeneration and that it conveyed grace ex opere operato; a position in which he was a little in advance of some of his school. His views on the Eucharist were hardly so sound, though there was nothing in them absolutely antagonistic to the truths which he had not yet realised. He certainly did not regard Holy Communion as the chief service in the Church, its central point.
On outward things, he was sane enough. He liked handsome churches, good ecclesiastical architecture, a well-ordered ceremonial, and a well-conducted service. If any one had told Mr. Carr that he was as nearly as possible "Catholic" in his views, that if they were logically pushed forward to their proper development he would be practically one with the St. Elwyn's people, he would first have been startled somewhat unpleasantly, and then he would have laughed incredulously.
And if some one had gone to Blantyre and told him that Carr was thus, he would have smiled rather sadly to think that his informant had realised the truths taught by the Anglican Church in a very limited way.
This mutual misunderstanding between the only two schools of thought in the Church of England that have enduring value is very common. The extreme Protestants are not church-people at all in any right sense of the word. The "Broad" party are confused with their own shifting surmises from day to day, and make too many "discoveries" to have real and lasting influence. But the "High Church" people and the pious "Evangelicals" are extraordinarily close to one another, and neither party realises the fact, while both would repudiate it. Yet both schools of opinion are, after all, occupied with one end and aim to the exclusion of all others – the attaining of personal holiness.
It was on a bright morning that Mr. Carr came down-stairs and breakfasted, after he had read prayers with his two servants. There was no daily service in St. Luke's, though evensong was said on Wednesdays and Saturdays. He read his morning paper for a few moments, then put it down and pushed his plate away. He was unable to eat, this morning.
He got up and walked uneasily about the room. His face was troubled and sad. Then he pulled a letter from his pocket and read it with a doubtful sigh. This was the letter:
"Luther Lodge,"Hornham, N.
"Dear Sir:
"Your letter duly to hand. I note that you are desirous of having a private conversation with me, and shall be pleased to grant facilities for same. I shall not be leaving for the Strand till mid-day, and can therefore see you at eleven.
"Faithfully yours,"Samuel Hamlyn."Secretary of the Luther League,"Chairman of The New Reformation Association."
The clergyman read and reread the letter, hardly knowing what to make of it. He had done so many times. The infinite condescension of it annoyed him; the recapitulation of the writer's position seemed a piece of impudent bravado, and reminded the vicar of St. Luke's of the unhappy state that religious life was in at Hornham.
Some days before, shocked and distressed beyond measure at the growing turmoil in Hornham, startled by the continued evidences of it that he met with in his pastoral life, he had written to Mr. Hamlyn asking for a private interview. He had shrunk from doing anything of the sort for weeks. His whole nature revolted against it. But he had dimly recognised that in some measure he might be said to be in a middle position between the two conflicting parties, and thought that his mediation might be of some avail. Repugnant as it was to him, he resolved that he must do what he thought to be his duty, and after he had made it the subject of anxious and fervent prayer he had made up his mind to see if he could not prevail with the leader of the "New Reformation" to cease his agitation, in Hornham at any rate. He imagined that Hamlyn could hardly realise the harm he was doing to the true religious life in the place. It was not his business to argue with the reformer about his work elsewhere. He knew nothing of that. But in Hornham, at any rate, he did see that the civil war provoked nothing but the evil passions of hatred and malice, had no effect upon either party, and prevented the steady preparation for heaven which he thought was the supreme business of Christians.
Hamlyn's letter certainly didn't seem at all conciliatory. It disturbed him. He had hardly ever spoken to the man in the past, but he had known of him, as he necessarily knew of every tradesman in the borough. Social considerations hardly ever entered his mind, but he had not thought of Hamlyn as a potentate in any way when he had written to him. He knew him for a plump, shrewd, vulgar man, who dropped his aspirates and said "paiper" for "paper," and, indeed, had thought none the worse of him for that. But the letter surprised him. It was almost offensive, and he was as near anger as a gentle-minded man may be.
At half-past ten o'clock, he sighed, realising that a most distasteful duty had to be done, and prepared to leave the house. Before he left his study, he knelt down and prayed for a blessing in his mission. He always prayed before any event of any importance in life. An enormous number of people still do, and it is a very great pity that some people do not believe or realise the fact. Prayer is not the anachronism many publicists would have us believe. If among all classes, Christians by open profession, and people who make no profession at all, save only contempt for Christianity, a census of prayers prayed during one day could be taken, the result would be very remarkable indeed. It would certainly startle the rationalists. Statistics show that every second a child is born and a person dies. It is during the approach of such occasions that even people who call themselves "atheists" generally pray. Ask hospital nurses, doctors, or parish priests! There is no greater humbug than the pretence that prayer as a general necessity and practice is dead. There is more irreligion visible to-day than at any other time in English history, perhaps. But that does not mean that people do not pray. The majority live a jolly, godless life till they are frightened. Then they pray. The minority pray always.
Mr. Carr left his house with a more vigorous step after his petition. As so many folk know, the help that comes from prayer is only self-hypnotism – of course. But it is certainly odd what power some of the least gifted and most ordinary people have of this self-hypnotism. One had always thought it rather a cryptic science, the literature of India, for example, regarding it as a supreme achievement. But it must be very simple after all! And if the help that comes to the human heart after prayer is a result of this magnetic power, all we can say is that in the depths of a Whitechapel slum, the outcast, forgotten, and oppressed have each and all the most remarkable, delicate, and cultured temperaments, not in the least seared or spoilt by privation and want. The only point that one quite fails to understand is, why are the leading reviews and scientific publications still discussing this art, or talent, as something rare, abnormal, and as yet little understood?
