1771: John Mallard, Rector of Ducks-on-Ponds
Private papers
My brother has written again from London—three pages of lamentation and lace—on the endless fatigue of presenting at Court. The poor man is terribly afflicted with royal proximity. He complains that the powdered air of St James’ dries his complexion and that the King’s private chaplain insists on discoursing about the moral improvement of horses. I replied, rather magnanimously, that God has wisely ordered the world so that some men must sparkle, while others, like myself, shine with steadier light in the ecclesiastical provinces.
I cannot deny that I am functionally responsible, as it were, up the line to God; and that line, in England, passes prominently through the Crown. Yet Providence, being clearly fond of me, has arranged matters so that my particular post does not require attendance at Court. To serve Heaven at an agreeable distance from earthly authority—that is what I call apostolic convenience.
I confess myself at present much enamoured of Latitudinarianism, that capacious creed which declares everything reasonable, provided one states it calmly. How humane a doctrine! It reconciles the necessity of belief with the comfort of not believing too much. Under the reign of Reason, religion has exchanged its whip for a walking stick. As Reverend Stoyte remarks in his Lectures on Moderate Faith, “The Almighty, being rational, prefers to be approached by gentlemen.” I find that thought consoling.
The Latitudinarian temper suits my general constitution: it promotes tolerance, education, an untroubled conscience, and a hearty supper. It also aligns, conveniently, with the views of our ruling Whigs—whose theology, like their politics, prefers the middle course so long as the pinnacle remains comfortable. This, I think, is the golden mean of moral arithmetic: the Calculus of Easy Virtue.
And yet… I find my mind, like a moth before a candle, recurring to the High Church persuasion. The Latitudinarians write better; but the High Churchmen, I think, dress better. Their dignified austerity appeals to my taste; their gravity would make an admirable frame for my features. I am, after all, rector of a parish of consequence: my congregation includes not only the gentry but several confirmed people of pork. It becomes me to encourage reverence by spectacle.
What could be more edifying than a surplice of properly ample proportion, or a procession conducted with such geometrical precision that Heaven itself must surely take notes? The “High and Dry,” as their detractors call them—and I entirely approve the metaphor—are as immovable as marble fonts and twice as decorative. Their Tory loyalties, their resistance to Evangelical ecstasy, and their careful aversion to enthusiasm all strike me as signs of advanced breeding. Conviction is far better borne by posture than by perspiration.
Indeed, I begin to suspect that my Rectorial destiny lies in composing sermons of exquisite equilibrium: passages of learning relieved by judicious pauses, designed to provoke reflection but carefully not emotion. As Bishop Montgrace insists in his splendid Treatise on the Ceremonial Mind, “God may be visible in the incense, but He must never be audible in the shouting.”
It is most unfortunate that the present temper of the State penalises dignity. The Whigs, those merchants of moderation, have so long governed the Church that solemnity itself is now considered a political crime. To carry oneself like an apostle is to risk being thought a Tory; to quote Hooker with feeling is to endanger preferment. Nevertheless, I comfort myself with the thought that intellectual conservatism shall one day again be fashionable. Ideas, like waistcoats, return every few decades.
In my own parish, I cultivate what I call Ritual by Persuasion. The services are conducted with a grace that implies ceremony without quite admitting it. The villagers, simple creatures, attend chiefly for the music and the faint rumour that my surplice cost thirty guineas. Thus educated, I trust they come eventually to understand that God, if He is at all divine, must surely prefer a well-ordered service to an enthusiastic one.
I have perhaps gone further than prudence strictly allows: last Sunday’s sermon on “Hierarchy in Heaven: A Model for the Parish” concluded with a brief sketch of celestial rank, elegantly suggested by my own seating plan at dinner. The Archdeacon frowned; the curate applauded; God, I think, was amused.
If the Age of Reason demands that the clergy be philosophers, I am willing; but it shall not compel me to fold a surplice like a utilitarian. I will be both Rational and Resplendent. In these muddy years of compromise and tepid salvation, someone must demonstrate that intellect and elegance belong together. It would be uncharitable to leave that demonstration entirely to the French.
Thus I end the day content: spared Court attendance, surrounded by books, plotting the theological reclamation of dignity. I feel the slow grandeur of the High Church rising within me like well-aged port—solemn, fragrant, and liable to strong opinions in the morning.
Tomorrow I shall take up Ecclesiastical Gravities, or, The Virtue of Standing Still by Canon Devereux—a book I expect to admire excessively. If it proves dull, I will read it twice.
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