Chapter XXIX: Vested Interests

I think Ruth has written you some nonsense about me to which I hope you will pay no attention. She is somewhat of a romancer. I do not mean that the bare facts are not as she states them, but I have your own high authority for the dictum that "A fact is often a most misleading thing"!

At any rate, I know she could not have told you about the interesting conversation we men had over our cigars after dinner, last night. After the ladies withdrew Sir William asked me many questions about our church. He wished particularly to learn how "The Anglican Church in the States" got on without the supervision of the state. I explained how rectors were "called," and bishops elected, and deputies to the General Convention chosen, etc. He was greatly interested, and said that unless something was done to give the laity a voice in the management of the parish, he believed the days of the Church of England were numbered. I asked him why he felt so despondent, and he said:

"Take the case of this parish: the rector is an uncouth creature who was given the living by a man to whom his father was tutor, and who probably took orders with this in view, for he is far more interested in his glebe than in the cure of souls. He will not listen to any suggestions, but goes his own way. All the money goes into his hands and there is no accounting to any one. I do not suggest that he is dishonest, but I do say that a man who had the right feeling would recognize that the people should know the amounts given, and the purposes for which they are used."

I said: "Surely there is a churchwarden?"

"True, but he is the schoolmaster, appointed by the rector and dependent upon him. The service is conducted in a most slovenly manner, and the music is quite painful. I offered to pay for a proper choirmaster, but he said that was an insult to his wife's sister, who plays the organ. The result of his bad manners and dictatorial spirit is that the congregation has dwindled to a mere handful, and they are mostly children whom the schoolmaster compels to come. The fact is that dissent is increasing at an alarming rate, and I think that soon there will be nothing left but the parson and the glebe!"

"Can the bishop do nothing?" I asked.

"Apparently not. The bishop says that if a responsible person will prefer charges he will take the matter up, but that 'a man cannot be deprived of his living because he happens to be unpopular.' Of course, if the Church of England exists to provide 'livings,' there is nothing more to be said. But if its purpose is to minister to the people, a way must be found to accomplish that. But I fear the attempt will prove fatal to the Establishment."

Of course, you and I should not feel that this would be fatal to the church, but what these men fear is that if the impartial hand of the state is withdrawn, the church will become a sect, or rather as many sects as there are now parties. And if disestablishment comes before the laity have gained their rights, we can guess what the "ecclesiastic" clerical, and especially the laymen--whom Thomas Browne once referred to as "ecclesiastical eunuchs"!--will make of it.

Mr. Buckthorne, who had kept silent while we were talking, now said: "This is a hard case, but it is nothing to what our parish has to endure." I said, "What is your trouble? What has your parson done?"

"You might better ask what has he not done! In the first place, there is a very ugly story about a farmer's daughter--the rights of which I neither know nor wish to know--but as a result none of the farmers will have anything to say to him. In the second place, he sits in the bar of the public house every Saturday night till closing time, drinking with the village topers, and consequently the respectable tradesmen will not come into the church. And finally it is reported--I do not say it is true, for I should not like to bring such a charge against any man without positive proof--but I do know it is commonly believed that he has shot partridges _sitting!_ and, of course, after that, no _gentleman_ will have anything to do with him."

"I should hope not," cried Sir William indignantly.

No, I did not laugh at this moral anticlimax. I again asked if the bishop could do nothing.

"Oh, the bishop has been appealed to, and, being a good man himself and a gentleman, is, of course, greatly distressed. I was one of those who went to see him, but all he could say was: 'Dear me, this is very sad. But it is to be remembered that the man is a rector and has a vested interest in the living. Of course, if responsible people can be found to substantiate these charges, undoubtedly he could be brought to trial, but it must not be forgotten that the law against libel is very stringent, and I should not care to move unless I could be assured that a verdict in my favor was a little more than probable.' And so the matter was dropped."

"What shall we say to these things?" Well, the obvious thing is that it is not royalty, as the Fourth of July orators used to declaim, nor the House of Lords, as the Hyde Park speakers are asserting, nor the palaces of the bishops, as some of our non-conformist friends believe; it is the "vested interests," which the new democracy must blast out of church and state before the people can determine their own destiny.

I suspect, if we were face to face, you with your sceptical spirit would suggest that there is something else to be said, which is that this quiet and intelligent-looking Mr. Buckthorne may have been feeding me on the same diet I served to his sister. At any rate, if not about the lesser immorality of his parson, at least about his heinous crime of shooting partridges, sitting.

I do not deny that this is possible, and indeed, much as I should wish to believe such a story, I am almost in hopes it is not true, for, if you will read to the end of this long story--which must, however, be left to my next--you will see why I have to-day a fellow feeling for the wretch, which last night I should have thought impossible!