If he meets a bishop, he takes his hat off, for he
admits his authority. If a beggar accosts him, he slips some charity
in his hands, and looks scared lest he should be seen.
The low-churchman hates the M. B. vestment, it was him who christened
it. He is a dab at nick-names. He meant it to signify the Mark of the
Beast. He likes the broad-brimmed beaver, it's more like a quaker, and
less like a pope. It is primitive. He looks better fed than the other,
and in better care. Preachin' he finds in a general way easier than
practice. Watch his face as he goes along, slowly and solemncoly
through the street. He looks so good, all the women that see him say,
"Ain't he a dear man?" He is meekness itself. Butter wouldn't melt in
his mouth. He has no pride in him. If there is any, it ain't in his
heart at any rate. Perhaps there is a little grain in his legs, but it
never got any higher. Sometimes, I suspect they have been touched with
the frost, for the air of a dining-room is colder under the table than
above it, and his legs do march stiff and formal like a soldier's, but
then, as he says, he is of the church militant. See what a curious
expression of countenance he has when he meets his bishop. Read it, it
says: "Now, my old Don, let us understand each other; you may ordain
and confirm, but don't you go one inch beyond that. No synods, no
regeneration in baptism, no control for me; I won't stand it.
Pages:
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228