_ By and by a subtle, indefinable malaise began to take possession of
him. I once saw a very young foal trying to eat some most
objectionable refuse, and unable to make up its mind whether it was
good or no. Clearly it wanted to be told. If its mother had seen
what it was doing she would have set it right in a moment, and as
soon as ever it had been told that what it was eating was filth, the
foal would have recognised it and never have wanted to be told
again; but the foal could not settle the matter for itself, or make
up its mind whether it liked what it was trying to eat or no,
without assistance from without. I suppose it would have come to do
so by and by, but it was wasting time and trouble, which a single
look from its mother would have saved, just as wort will in time
ferment of itself, but will ferment much more quickly if a little
yeast be added to it. In the matter of knowing what gives us
pleasure we are all like wort, and if unaided from without can only
ferment slowly and toilsomely.
My unhappy hero about this time was very much like the foal, or
rather he felt much what the foal would have felt if its mother and
all the other grown-up horses in the field had vowed that what it
was eating was the most excellent and nutritious food to be found
anywhere. He was so anxious to do what was right, and so ready to
believe that every one knew better than himself, that he never
ventured to admit to himself that he might be all the while on a
hopelessly wrong tack. It did not occur to him that there might be
a blunder anywhere, much less did it occur to him to try and find
out where the blunder was. Nevertheless he became daily more full
of malaise, and daily, only he knew it not, more ripe for an
explosion should a spark fall upon him.
One thing, however, did begin to loom out of the general vagueness,
and to this he instinctively turned as trying to seize it--I mean,
the fact that he was saving very few souls, whereas there were
thousands and thousands being lost hourly all around him which a
little energy such as Mr Hawke's might save. Day after day went by,
and what was he doing? Standing on professional etiquette, and
praying that his shares might go up and down as he wanted them, so
that they might give him money enough to enable him to regenerate
the universe. But in the meantime the people were dying. How many
souls would not be doomed to endless ages of the most frightful
torments that the mind could think of, before he could bring his
spiritual pathology engine to bear upon them? Why might he not
stand and preach as he saw the Dissenters doing sometimes in
Lincoln's Inn Fields and other thoroughfares? He could say all that
Mr Hawke had said. Mr Hawke was a very poor creature in Ernest's
eyes now, for he was a Low Churchman, but we should not be above
learning from any one, and surely he could affect his hearers as
powerfully as Mr Hawke had affected him if he only had the courage
to set to work. The people whom he saw preaching in the squares
sometimes drew large audiences. He could at any rate preach better
than they.
Ernest broached this to Pryer, who treated it as something too
outrageous to be even thought of. Nothing, he said, could more tend
to lower the dignity of the clergy and bring the Church into
contempt. His manner was brusque, and even rude.
Ernest ventured a little mild dissent; he admitted it was not usual,
but something at any rate must be done, and that quickly. This was
how Wesley and Whitfield had begun that great movement which had
kindled religious life in the minds of hundreds of thousands. This
was no time to be standing on dignity. It was just because Wesley
and Whitfield had done what the Church would not that they had won
men to follow them whom the Church had now lost.
Pryer eyed Ernest searchingly, and after a pause said, "I don't know
what to make of you, Pontifex; you are at once so very right and so
very wrong. I agree with you heartily that something should be
done, but it must not be done in a way which experience has shown
leads to nothing but fanaticism and dissent. Do you approve of
these Wesleyans? Do you hold your ordination vows so cheaply as to
think that it does not matter whether the services of the Church are
performed in her churches and with all due ceremony or not? If you
do--then, frankly, you had no business to be ordained; if you do
not, then remember that one of the first duties of a young deacon is
obedience to authority. Neither the Catholic Church, nor yet the
Church of England allows her clergy to preach in the streets of
cities where there is no lack of churches."
Ernest felt the force of this, and Pryer saw that he wavered.
"We are living," he continued more genially, "in an age of
transition, and in a country which, though it has gained much by the
Reformation, does not perceive how much it has also lost. You
cannot and must not hawk Christ about in the streets as though you
were in a heathen country whose inhabitants had never heard of him.
The people here in London have had ample warning. Every church they
pass is a protest to them against their lives, and a call to them to
repent. Every church-bell they hear is a witness against them,
everyone of those whom they meet on Sundays going to or coming from
church is a warning voice from God. If these countless influences
produce no effect upon them, neither will the few transient words
which they would hear from you. You are like Dives, and think that
if one rose from the dead they would hear him. Perhaps they might;
but then you cannot pretend that you have risen from the dead."
Though the last few words were spoken laughingly, there was a sub-
sneer about them which made Ernest wince; but he was quite subdued,
and so the conversation ended. It left Ernest, however, not for the
first time, consciously dissatisfied with Pryer, and inclined to set
his friend's opinion on one side--not openly, but quietly, and
without telling Pryer anything about it. _