DOI Heft:
July to December, 1844
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.16520#0176
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
169
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
LETTER XXXI.
from a kishop to a young friend about to take orders.
Dear Basil,
I have learned, with exceeding gladness, of your excellent
father, that it is your determination to enter the Church. From
what I know of your nature, I feel assured that this resolve is
not the offshot of a vagrant, unthinking disposition, but the goodly
fruit of a mind disciplined, and chastened of those vanities which, at j
your age, too commonly beset mankind. Believing that your election
is that of an ardent and purified spirit, I hail it rejoicingly.
My dear young friend, be grateful— yea, in your inmost soul, be
grateful—that you have been directed to a choice which, whilst it
will abound with life-long satisfaction to yourself, will make you a
daily, providential comfort to your fellow-creatures. There is a
happiness in this belief, too deep, too awful for any words of mine—
a happiness only to be felt in the heart it consecrates.
From the moment of your ordination, you are set apart from the
gross, vain, foolish desires of men ; you are made a teacher and a
watcher of your kind—the counsel, the reproof of the pastor, directed
■ind softened by the love and sympathy of a brother. There is no
despair so wild that the music of your comforting may not tame to
gentleness and hope ; there is no heart so stony that, smitten by your
word, may not be made to gush with a living stream. High privilege
—glorious prerogative, that makes man the mediator with Heaven—
that gives him strength to raise from the dust the faint, crushed, j
guilt-defiled heart, assuring it a home and resting-place among the
stars !
From how many blighting evils, cancerous cares, will your high
office preserve you ! You will see men pursuing vain wealth and
vainer honours, even as little boys hunt butterflies ; with frantic
glee they seize the thing pursued, and it is worthless in their grasp.
"Whilst you, rich in the spirit that is within you, upraised by the
dignity of the awful future, will smile, though not in pride, but with
abounding pit}-, with compassionating love. To you poverty itself
will be a robe of highest state : aud though most frugal be your
board, yet, as with the patriarch, angels may feast with you. though
men know them not.
In every stage of mortal life, you are the elected comforter, adviser
ot mankind. Your glorious and beautiful mission begins with the
babe that shrinks and wails beneath the baptismal water, nor ends but
with the blessing prayer that leaves the image of man to become
again dust. From the fount to the grave how many the calls—how
many the necessities of your infirm and erring brother—for that hope,
that consolation, of which you are the chosen phial ! How beautiful
your daily intercourse with those who feed and thrive upon your
sayings ! How sweet that gentle familiarity that mixes itself in the
working-day life of the poor ; that with soft greetings and kindly
smiles claims kindred with the meanest of the earth as fellow-
sojourners in future heaven !--And now, hark ! it is black midnight,
and the tempest howls and claws like a famished wolf at your door.
The thunder rolls, crashing above your roof! The lightning opens
up the sky in one wide vault of fire—and now it is dark, and the
wind moans like a despairing soul. There is a loud and urgent
knocking at your door—again—again ! Alas, dear sir, there is a
poor creature, a cotter, one of your flock, in his last agonv. His soul
must from his flesh this awful night, and he begs vour comforting,
your benediction on its solemn journey.
You spring from your bed. Your cloak is old—thin almost as a
web ; nathless, you hug it closely around you, and with stout heart
and composed soul follow your guide through path and no path—bog
and mire. The thunder splits above you—the lightning chases your
steps : but like a good spirit sent on God's own errand, you pass
scathless on. You enter the hut of the dying ; you comfort and
strengthen the quivering soul. It departs to the Great Source it
came from. And then in peace and prayer you retrace your steps,
and sleep the sleep of the good.
But your own heart, my dear young friend, will best find out your
duties. You will feel that every moment of your life must be a
living example to all men. You must feel that your daily actions
are as a mirror by which your flock are to dress their souls: that
your every gesture should be gentle—your every word soft and
sweet even as a note of well-touched music. Your life must be
the active comment on the text you are sworn to, or your life is
naught.
What! is there a man vowed to that text, who, worse than a hire-
ling player, acts his part yet never feels it ? Does he dress himself
for some brief hour or so, to ape a mission ? Is his daily life coarse
chaffering ? Is he a swiller at taverns ? Does he, with embossed
face, tell Cyprian tales, laughing the loudest at his noisome jest ? Can
there be such a man, and can he on the seventh day, with unabashed
forehead, tempt God's thunder ? No—it is impossible. He who
says there is, gently rebuke. Say, " Some enemy hath done this."
My dear Basil, i have endeavoured to place before you your duties
as the parish pastor of a flock. Providence may, however, raise you
to the bench. Yes, Basil ; you may become a bishop. Nevertheless,
seek not the dignity ; nay, pray that it may never fall upon you- In
your mid-day walks—in your closet—in your bed, let your constant
ejaculation be—Nolo eplscopari. Sweet, most sweet, is the humblest
curacy—dangerous and difficult the richest see. How far happier—
how more truly primitive the pastor of a Welsh mountain, than the
bishop of even golden Durham ! And the bishop—be assured of it
—thinks so.
Nevertheless, I wilt suppose it your hard destiny to become a
bishop. Power and wealth are poured upon you. Gold trickles in
upon your treasury from a hundred curious crevices—from chinks,
that in sooth might sometimes astonish the fathers. You cannot bless
even so much churchyard clay, but that the clay, like a Potosi mine,
shall render you so much gold. You would be bewildered by your
wealth—you would weep in anguish of spirit at your riches, but
that you always have with you the ignorant to teach—the poor to
succour. Hence, you may with sweetest conscience clutch all the
money you can ; for why ? As a bishop, are you not the almoner of
Providence ? Do not the hungry cluster at your gate ? Send you
not away the naked clothed and rejoicing ? Oh what a weight—
a weight dragging the soul to earth would this mammon be, but
that it stays not in the bishop's purse—but that, as the soft-hearted
housewife feeds the winter birds, he scatters abroad his substance to
the wretched and the suffering. Hence, being bishop, you may take
all you can. Of course, you hold it but in trust. Every quarter,
your conscience audits the accounts with Heaven,—and you are
serene, are happy in the humble sense of your own righteousness.
Beins bishop, vou are also law-maker. Beautiful, soul-exalting
mission ! You sit in the House of Lords as a Superior Intelligence :
superior by the charity for all men that resides within you ! Hence,
you defile not yourself with politics. The lawn of the bishop is
never, like the coat of Josei*h, parti-coloured. The bishop knows no
one side of the human heart. No; he is for humanity in all its
breadth, and in all its depth. Hence, when lords talk of war, and
tiger looks steal into the eyes of men, the awful bishop rises from
his seat, and with a voice of thunder denounces the abomination
Aud then with tearful eyes, and with a voice broken with the heart's
spasms, he shows the blasphemy of murderous war—paints in their
own diabolic hues thousands and thousands of drilled and hireling
Cains butchering their brothers ! And thus the bishop sometimes-
only sometimes—-melts the House of Lords !
And now, my dear young friend, I have—though most imperfectly
—laid before you the many blessings which await you in tne Church,
which, rightly ministered, is the vestibule to an immortal life. That
you may serve in it with glory to yourself, and with profit to all men,
is the prayer of
Yours affectionately,
Samuel of--■.
LETTER XXXII.
the answer.
My Dear Sir,
It is impossible that I can sufficiently thank you for your
letter. I have been all along in a sad mistake. My family having,
by marriage, a snug thing or two in the Church, I thought it a good
investment of the little talent I may possess. I don't boast of much
-—but at a fox-hunt I was never yet out at the death, and at a
steeple-chase never craned at anything. I therefore thought I might
manage to rub on very well in canonicals ; but, really, you have
thrown so many difficulties in my way, that, I certainly must give
the clergy the go-bye.
With thanks, however, for your very long letter,
I remain, yours truly,
Basil Jolly
P.S. They tell me I've the gift of the gab—I think I shall go
to the Bar.
Vol.. 7.
G—2
169
PUNCH'S COMPLETE LETTER-WRITER.
LETTER XXXI.
from a kishop to a young friend about to take orders.
Dear Basil,
I have learned, with exceeding gladness, of your excellent
father, that it is your determination to enter the Church. From
what I know of your nature, I feel assured that this resolve is
not the offshot of a vagrant, unthinking disposition, but the goodly
fruit of a mind disciplined, and chastened of those vanities which, at j
your age, too commonly beset mankind. Believing that your election
is that of an ardent and purified spirit, I hail it rejoicingly.
My dear young friend, be grateful— yea, in your inmost soul, be
grateful—that you have been directed to a choice which, whilst it
will abound with life-long satisfaction to yourself, will make you a
daily, providential comfort to your fellow-creatures. There is a
happiness in this belief, too deep, too awful for any words of mine—
a happiness only to be felt in the heart it consecrates.
From the moment of your ordination, you are set apart from the
gross, vain, foolish desires of men ; you are made a teacher and a
watcher of your kind—the counsel, the reproof of the pastor, directed
■ind softened by the love and sympathy of a brother. There is no
despair so wild that the music of your comforting may not tame to
gentleness and hope ; there is no heart so stony that, smitten by your
word, may not be made to gush with a living stream. High privilege
—glorious prerogative, that makes man the mediator with Heaven—
that gives him strength to raise from the dust the faint, crushed, j
guilt-defiled heart, assuring it a home and resting-place among the
stars !
From how many blighting evils, cancerous cares, will your high
office preserve you ! You will see men pursuing vain wealth and
vainer honours, even as little boys hunt butterflies ; with frantic
glee they seize the thing pursued, and it is worthless in their grasp.
"Whilst you, rich in the spirit that is within you, upraised by the
dignity of the awful future, will smile, though not in pride, but with
abounding pit}-, with compassionating love. To you poverty itself
will be a robe of highest state : aud though most frugal be your
board, yet, as with the patriarch, angels may feast with you. though
men know them not.
In every stage of mortal life, you are the elected comforter, adviser
ot mankind. Your glorious and beautiful mission begins with the
babe that shrinks and wails beneath the baptismal water, nor ends but
with the blessing prayer that leaves the image of man to become
again dust. From the fount to the grave how many the calls—how
many the necessities of your infirm and erring brother—for that hope,
that consolation, of which you are the chosen phial ! How beautiful
your daily intercourse with those who feed and thrive upon your
sayings ! How sweet that gentle familiarity that mixes itself in the
working-day life of the poor ; that with soft greetings and kindly
smiles claims kindred with the meanest of the earth as fellow-
sojourners in future heaven !--And now, hark ! it is black midnight,
and the tempest howls and claws like a famished wolf at your door.
The thunder rolls, crashing above your roof! The lightning opens
up the sky in one wide vault of fire—and now it is dark, and the
wind moans like a despairing soul. There is a loud and urgent
knocking at your door—again—again ! Alas, dear sir, there is a
poor creature, a cotter, one of your flock, in his last agonv. His soul
must from his flesh this awful night, and he begs vour comforting,
your benediction on its solemn journey.
You spring from your bed. Your cloak is old—thin almost as a
web ; nathless, you hug it closely around you, and with stout heart
and composed soul follow your guide through path and no path—bog
and mire. The thunder splits above you—the lightning chases your
steps : but like a good spirit sent on God's own errand, you pass
scathless on. You enter the hut of the dying ; you comfort and
strengthen the quivering soul. It departs to the Great Source it
came from. And then in peace and prayer you retrace your steps,
and sleep the sleep of the good.
But your own heart, my dear young friend, will best find out your
duties. You will feel that every moment of your life must be a
living example to all men. You must feel that your daily actions
are as a mirror by which your flock are to dress their souls: that
your every gesture should be gentle—your every word soft and
sweet even as a note of well-touched music. Your life must be
the active comment on the text you are sworn to, or your life is
naught.
What! is there a man vowed to that text, who, worse than a hire-
ling player, acts his part yet never feels it ? Does he dress himself
for some brief hour or so, to ape a mission ? Is his daily life coarse
chaffering ? Is he a swiller at taverns ? Does he, with embossed
face, tell Cyprian tales, laughing the loudest at his noisome jest ? Can
there be such a man, and can he on the seventh day, with unabashed
forehead, tempt God's thunder ? No—it is impossible. He who
says there is, gently rebuke. Say, " Some enemy hath done this."
My dear Basil, i have endeavoured to place before you your duties
as the parish pastor of a flock. Providence may, however, raise you
to the bench. Yes, Basil ; you may become a bishop. Nevertheless,
seek not the dignity ; nay, pray that it may never fall upon you- In
your mid-day walks—in your closet—in your bed, let your constant
ejaculation be—Nolo eplscopari. Sweet, most sweet, is the humblest
curacy—dangerous and difficult the richest see. How far happier—
how more truly primitive the pastor of a Welsh mountain, than the
bishop of even golden Durham ! And the bishop—be assured of it
—thinks so.
Nevertheless, I wilt suppose it your hard destiny to become a
bishop. Power and wealth are poured upon you. Gold trickles in
upon your treasury from a hundred curious crevices—from chinks,
that in sooth might sometimes astonish the fathers. You cannot bless
even so much churchyard clay, but that the clay, like a Potosi mine,
shall render you so much gold. You would be bewildered by your
wealth—you would weep in anguish of spirit at your riches, but
that you always have with you the ignorant to teach—the poor to
succour. Hence, you may with sweetest conscience clutch all the
money you can ; for why ? As a bishop, are you not the almoner of
Providence ? Do not the hungry cluster at your gate ? Send you
not away the naked clothed and rejoicing ? Oh what a weight—
a weight dragging the soul to earth would this mammon be, but
that it stays not in the bishop's purse—but that, as the soft-hearted
housewife feeds the winter birds, he scatters abroad his substance to
the wretched and the suffering. Hence, being bishop, you may take
all you can. Of course, you hold it but in trust. Every quarter,
your conscience audits the accounts with Heaven,—and you are
serene, are happy in the humble sense of your own righteousness.
Beins bishop, vou are also law-maker. Beautiful, soul-exalting
mission ! You sit in the House of Lords as a Superior Intelligence :
superior by the charity for all men that resides within you ! Hence,
you defile not yourself with politics. The lawn of the bishop is
never, like the coat of Josei*h, parti-coloured. The bishop knows no
one side of the human heart. No; he is for humanity in all its
breadth, and in all its depth. Hence, when lords talk of war, and
tiger looks steal into the eyes of men, the awful bishop rises from
his seat, and with a voice of thunder denounces the abomination
Aud then with tearful eyes, and with a voice broken with the heart's
spasms, he shows the blasphemy of murderous war—paints in their
own diabolic hues thousands and thousands of drilled and hireling
Cains butchering their brothers ! And thus the bishop sometimes-
only sometimes—-melts the House of Lords !
And now, my dear young friend, I have—though most imperfectly
—laid before you the many blessings which await you in tne Church,
which, rightly ministered, is the vestibule to an immortal life. That
you may serve in it with glory to yourself, and with profit to all men,
is the prayer of
Yours affectionately,
Samuel of--■.
LETTER XXXII.
the answer.
My Dear Sir,
It is impossible that I can sufficiently thank you for your
letter. I have been all along in a sad mistake. My family having,
by marriage, a snug thing or two in the Church, I thought it a good
investment of the little talent I may possess. I don't boast of much
-—but at a fox-hunt I was never yet out at the death, and at a
steeple-chase never craned at anything. I therefore thought I might
manage to rub on very well in canonicals ; but, really, you have
thrown so many difficulties in my way, that, I certainly must give
the clergy the go-bye.
With thanks, however, for your very long letter,
I remain, yours truly,
Basil Jolly
P.S. They tell me I've the gift of the gab—I think I shall go
to the Bar.
Vol.. 7.
G—2