1848: Preface to the Second, Regrettably Enlarged Edition of “The Worldly Bishop and the Godly Curate, Being an Inquiry into the Relative Merits of Piety and Position, and the Curious Failure of Either to Resemble Christ”
By The Right Reverend Lord John Mallard, Bishop of Ducks-on-Ponds, Published at the Bishop’s Private Press
I have been urged—by my publisher, my secretary, and at least one of my lovers—to provide an introduction to this small and scandalous work, lest the public mistake satire for confession. In truth, the confusion would be excusable. England, in her infinite Anglican wisdom, considers every bishop a work of fiction already, and a remarkably implausible one at that.
This pamphlet, The Worldly Bishop and the Godly Curate, was first written in a fit of penitential boredom, and published anonymously for reasons of self‑respect and plausible deniability. It was supposed to be read by the sort of people who cannot afford theology but enjoy the spectacle of ecclesiastical embarrassment. Alas, it fell instead into the hands of persons actually employed in the Church, who regarded its irony as an instruction manual.
I am told one curate—too literal for his own salvation—used the text as a “mirror for the ministry.” He has since married, which I take to mean the mirror was accurate.
The premise is simple enough. One pictures, on one side, the Bishop—urbane, resonant of port and privilege, delighted with his dinner and his doctrine alike. On the other side stands the curate: pale, gaunt with responsibility, piously threadbare, his cassock smelling faintly of damp hymnals and refusal. One preaches the gospel of manifestation; the other practices the religion of exhaustion. Between them falls the shadow of divine administration, and from that shadow this book emerged, coughing.
The contrast, I admit, is exaggerated—but only by the width of a mitre.
My late friend Canon Rueport, whose belief in the Church was exceeded only by his disbelief in its people, used to say that a clergyman’s salary is “proportional to the volume of air between his head and his congregation.” That equation remains the most succinct piece of Anglican arithmetic I know.
Permit me, as one of the condemned species, to describe the bishop’s natural habits. His Lordship (I use the third person decorously) is a sedentary mammal of high breeding and peculiar digestion. He feeds chiefly upon correspondence, tithes, and invitations to dine where his sermons are not expected to make sense. He travels with moderate dignity and substantial luggage. He preaches sparingly but bills extravagantly. As a rule, he believes every parish capable of both spiritual and financial improvement under episcopal supervision, provided his supervision is strictly notional.
It must, however, be admitted that bishops serve a vital function in the national ecology: they provide protection to their curates by absorbing public ridicule. The clergy without bishops would resemble oysters without shells—tender, indignant, and soon extinct. Nevertheless, I find it curious that the average bishop’s salary is calculated as if his holiness required permanent heating.
Of course, it is easy to mock bishops; I simply possess the advantage of knowing where they drink.
The other half of our ecclesiastical equation—the Godly Curate—occupies that exquisite plane of social suffering shared by governesses and philosophers. His remuneration would not keep a bishop’s candle alive, and yet he burns—with zeal, frustration, sometimes a passion so severe one could mistake it for religion.
In The Faded Collar: or, Spiritual Destitution in Two Volumes (published anonymously by a friend who never forgave me for lending him a living without furniture), there appears this climactic sentence:
“The curate’s heart was pure, but his boots were patchwork; he loved the Lord, but not the laundress.”
It is an accurate summary of the species. Their lives are a sublime farce: labouring for souls that barely sing and bishops that never listen. They polish the Church’s conscience like household silver only to find their reflection unrecognisable. The more godly the curate, the smaller his stipend—proof that the Almighty rewards endurance in instalments.
To my fellow bishops, I say: remember that your chaplains are not decorative animals. They require not only Scripture but sustenance. Do not confuse the poverty of the clergy with the purity of the Church; God may love a cheerful giver, but He abhors a stingy prelate.
And to the curates: moderation in obedience. One may kiss the episcopal ring without swallowing the hand attached. Revolt carefully, with grammar. Christ Himself was a dissenter before the Church arranged otherwise.
As my aunt the Dowager Marchioness once told her chaplain—poor man, he expired immediately after lunch—“Your calling is divine, my dear, but your income is deplorable. Do consider Heaven; they say it pays better.”
My critics suggest that this pamphlet betrays an unbecoming sarcasm in one consecrated to charity. I reply that sarcasm is merely the heat given off when truth tries to be polite. The Church, like marriage, depends upon the endurance of such friction.
If I jest at the expense of my order, it is because I love it ruinously. To parody a pulpit is to preserve it. Or so I console myself when my fellow bishops remove me from committees. One must sin discreetly in order to remain interesting to Grace.
As for the whispers regarding my “worldliness,” let me confess at last: I have dined too richly, read too heretically, and loved too specifically. Yet these, I submit, are the only experiences that render a man capable of redemption—or verse. My curate, when I still had one, concurred on all three counts, which perhaps explains his early resignation.
This second edition appears with reluctance, for the author has discovered that influence is always a punishment. In due fairness, the pamphlet was written not for the pulpit but for the parlour: a companion to after‑dinner realism, a cordial for those weary of ecclesiastical upholstery. I write for readers who prefer their gospel seasoned, their bishops slightly overcooked, and their morality digestible.
If this description includes you, dear reader, welcome. If not, you are at liberty to denounce the book publicly; episcopal outrage sells astonishingly well.
To speak candidly, the Church of England remains the only organisation where humility is rewarded with hierarchy and penance celebrated by procession. We stand in spotless robes upon foundations of domestic chaos. Yet for all its hypocrisy, our Church is touchingly human—like a duchess with a past, forever pretending not to enjoy the conversation.
Allow me, therefore, to dedicate this new edition to the Two Pillars of Our Faith:
* To the Godly Curate, that weary saint of cold rectories, cheap candles, and unrequited vocation.
* And to the Worldly Bishop—may he forever rule his diocese with benevolent incompetence and molten silver in his veins.
Between us lies England, and in England lies salvation—distinguished, underpaid, and impeccably dressed.
You are here: States of Grace > Biography