[For the satisfaction of the reader, it may be noted that the papers which will appear under the above title are not only founded upon fact, but are literal records of facts. The writer of the diary was, for a considerable time, the curate of a large parish in England.]

It has often been said, let a man but write down his chapter of human experience; in the forcible language of truth let him make known his struggles; in the battle he has waged with ignorance and selfishness, let him exaggerate no triumph, conceal no defeat, and he will not fail to touch human hearts. One hears men talk of eventful lives. Why, every life is full of events. Seize upon the first wretched pauper that you meet—he could tell you things which should make your heart throb with pity and indignation. You—strong in intellect, knowing the world, exalted in social rank—would acknowledge that the vilest can claim brotherhood with the noblest. . . . .

[We omit the rest of this, and pass on to the period when the writer was preparing for ordination.]

It was my fate to be ordained. Honestly, in looking back to the whole series of events, I cannot divine by what exertion of my own will, at any particular crisis, it could have been avoided. Of course, I might have withstood to the death. But, on the whole, I can say no more than this—I submitted to my fate. Knowing this beforehand, I trained myself into obedience. I am convinced that no disciple of Ignatius Loyola has ever gone through severer discipline, in obedience to the will of his superior, and "for the glory of God," than I did, in the most painful struggle between inclination and destiny. . . . Still, or perhaps as a consequence of this, I formed the most brilliant conceptions of my future career. I honoured, with all my soul, the office of the teacher. I dwelt, with extraordinary satisfaction, on the thought that some word of mine—spoken with authority—might ease an aching heart. I wrought myself into the conviction that I had a message to deliver, and that I could deliver it most fitly, most beneficially, as an ordained minister of the Church of England. I was mistaken; and to those who are in the same case as I was, I dedicate these fragments. I leave it to them to decide who was in the wrong.

What offends me in the Church of England, is its glaring inconsistency. Perpetually, in the liturgy and elsewhere, it says one thing and means or does another. Very properly, no one should be presented for ordination who is deficient in learning, or what is called "godly conversation." Of the godly conversation the less said the better; but no one who has been in the habit of mixing with the Church of England clergy, will venture to say much to their general proficiency in any learning that has the most distant connection with the requirements of this age. Why, then, perpetuate the farce of sending out men to teach, who lack the very essential quality of knowing what they should teach? Perhaps these Oxford commissioners may effect some change, if the government is wise enough, and strong enough, to carry out what I am certain they will recommend.

Well—with no indefinite conception of what I was about to undergo, well versed in the subtle arguments by which men, too weak to face the real difficulty of the ordination service, explain it away, and tempt the younger clergy to play fast and loose with conscience—I presented myself to the bishop. I do not remember that I was ever so deeply shocked as when I walked through that noble park to the splendid old mansion that lay concealed within its woods. I knew that bishops were very wealthy; but as the member of an ancient university—a Church of England institution—how could I be expected to chime in with the vile denunciations of the radical press, or the railings of the fierce democracy? On that day, however, the unconscious indignation of a score of years was awakened in a moment. It was not the wealth—Heaven knows a bishop could find objects for charity that would swallow up an income tenfold that of the richest prelate—but it was the pomp of luxury—the powdered flunkeys, who look down on humble creatures with the scorn engendered by much wearing of purple coats—the intense conviction that, from all I knew of the man—this bishop, at least did care for and idolise his wealth—it was all this, contrasted with the thought of the thousand beggars among whom I was to be sent, that drove the iron into my very soul.

We were to be examined. I remember, with painful distinctness, that I was imprisoned for three hours in a small room, to answer questions which are answered readily by National school children. Certainly I was made to write Latin, but I did not then, nor do I now, understand the connection between writing Latin prose and teaching men the way to heaven. At all events, I know that I was not examined on the subjects which I was about to teach. But, then, the bishop and the examiner had never had the charge of large parishes, and perhaps did not know what was required of us. Let me admit, however, that this was an exceptional case. I could mention several bishops, who so manage their intercourse with candidates for ordination, that whole years of vexation and disappointment cannot efface the impression.

The examination was over. Often during my life, I had listened to ordination sermons. I had been told that, in early times, the candidate passed the eve of his ordination in prayer and fasting. Wealthy canons had insisted on the necessity of self-denial. They had proved—oh! with how much force, from the New Testament and example of primitive saints—that it was only by strict subjection of the body that the soul could be brought into a fit condition for the Christian ministry. I do not mean that we were invited to become ascetics. Few men go so far as that. But, most assuredly, I have yet to learn that a luxurious banquet is the best preparative for services so intensely solemn as those for the ordination of priests and deacons. For myself, I know that I was struck with a painful sense of unreality. I thought then, and I think still, that whatever may be the customs of society, the clergy should at least endeavour to practise what they preach. They should give that one proof of their sincerity. They should stand forth to the world living examples of Christian virtues. As it is, the sight of one indolent priest does away with all the good that might be produced by a thousand sermons.

I arrived at my parish. I was now to test by actual experience, the truth of theories which, as I have already said, I had forced myself to believe. It was a large seaport town in a manufacturing district, and contained a population of several thousand souls. To an earnest man, entering upon a work so serious as that of a Christian teacher, the prospect was appalling. No language can describe the filth, misery, and utter degradation in which a large proportion of the people were sunk. Even of the rich there were scarcely a dozen families who could be described as belonging to the educated class. The majority of them had risen, by dint of honest industry, to the position of considerable wealth; they were sharp-sighted, clever men of business; but their knowledge was confined to the laws of trade and commerce. Scarcely one could date the beginning of his good fortune back than the last European war. And yet a more kind-hearted, hospitable set of men it would be hard to find. It was some time before I discovered what a depth of selfishness and narrow-mindedness was concealed beneath so fair an exterior. Some of these people belonged to the class of liberal politicians, that is, they had voted for the free-trade candidate, and were in favour of extending the franchise to their workmen. But these were exceptions to the general rule. The rest were obstinately convinced that Sir Robert Peel was a traitor to his country, and at the time of which we speak, would have willingly seen that eminent statesman carried off to the Tower, and imprisoned for life. Hence they were strongly opposed to all movements in favour of education, or any modern improvement whatever. They were profoundly convinced, that to promote such objects was to conspire against the British constitution. As for religion, it was quite enough to attend a Sunday service. There could be no connection between that and the duties of common life.

Tradesmen, mechanics, and sailors made up the rest of the population. With persons of this class I had still to make acquaintance; but, at a glance, I saw enough to try the stoutest heart, the keenest intellect, the most consummate patience. The routine of daily and Sunday service was very simple, but it was impossible to be content with that. Had a clergyman no message to deliver except to the soul? Was it for me to witness social disorder and hesitate to proclaim the fact? Could I hold my peace in the presence of obstinate and wealthy ignorance? What was Christianity worth if it had no power to heal the ills of poverty, to speak to human hearts from a human point of view, to tell men something of the laws that should regulate society? I knew something of the questions which were vexing to the very heart of English life. I was the appointed teacher of hundreds who would never enter the place where I was to speak to them. According to a common theory among churchmen, I could hold no intercourse with them except on terms which they could not accept and I would not impose. They were used to instruments for making gold—slaves of slaves in this old land of freedom—and yet, though their masters would not or could not know it, they had hearts to love, and brains to think. Even more than this—they were "feeling after" mighty truths, which sooner or later must change the face of things. Could I lend them no helping hand, or would they accept the proffered aid from one whose very office must create suspicion? —[From the Leader.

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