THE CLERK AS A POET
The parish clerk, skilled in psalmody, has sometimes shown evidences of
true poetic feeling. The divine afflatus has occasionally inspired in
him some fine thoughts and graceful fancies. His race has produced many
writers of terrible doggerel of the monumental class of poetry; but far
removed from these there have been some who have composed fine hymns and
sweet verse.
An obscure hymn-writer, whose verses have been sung in all parts of the
world, was Thomas Bilby, parish clerk of St. Mary's Church, Islington,
between the years 1842 and 1872. He was the parish schoolmaster also,
and thus maintained the traditions of his office handed down from
mediæval times. Before the days of School Boards it was not unusual for
the clerk to teach the children of the working classes the three R's and
religious knowledge, charging a fee of twopence per week for each child.
Mrs. Mary Strathern has kindly sent me the following account of the
church wherein Thomas Bilby served as clerk, and of the famous hymn
which he wrote.
The church of St. Mary's, Islington, was not internally a thing of
beauty. It was square; it had no chancel; the walls were covered with
monuments and tablets to the praise and glory of departed parishioners.
On three sides it had a wide gallery, the west end of which contained
the organ, with the Royal Arms as large as life in front. On either side
below the galleries were double rows of high pews, and down the centre
passage a row of open benches for the poor. Between these benches and
the altar, completely hiding the altar from the congregation, stood a
huge "three-decker." The pulpit, on a level with the galleries, was
reached by a staircase at the back; below that was "the reading desk,"
from which the curate said the prayers; and below that again, a smaller
desk, where, Sunday after Sunday, for thirty years, T. Bilby, parish
clerk and schoolmaster, gave out the hymns, read the notices, and
published the banns of marriage. He was short and stout; his hair was
white; he wore a black gown with deep velvet collar, ornamented with
many tassels and fringes; and he carried a staff of office.
It was a great missionary parish. The vicar, Daniel Wilson, was a son of
that well-known Daniel Wilson, sometime vicar of Islington, and
afterwards Bishop of Calcutta. The Church Missionary College, where many
young missionaries sent out by the Church Missionary Society are
trained, stood in our midst; and it was within St. Mary's Church the
writer saw the venerable Bishop Crowther, of the Niger, ordain his own
son deacon. Mr. Bilby had at one time been a catechist and schoolmaster
in Sierra Leone, and was full of interesting stories of the mission work
amongst the freed slaves in that settlement. He had a magic lantern,
with many views of Africa, and of the churches and schools in the
mission fields, and often gave missionary lectures to the school
children. It was on one of these occasions, when he had been telling us
about his work abroad, and how he soon got to know when a black boy had
a dirty face, that he said: "While I was in Africa, I composed a hymn,
and taught the black children to sing it; and now there is not a
Christian school in any part of the world where my hymn is not known and
sung. I will begin it now, and you will all sing it with me." Then the
old man began:
"Here we suffer grief and pain."
Immediately every child in the room took it up, and sang with might and
main:
"Here we meet to part again;
In heaven we part no more."
We had always thought the familiar words were as old as the Bible
itself, and could scarcely believe they had been written by our own
old friend.
Soon after that memorable night, the old man began to get feeble; his
place in the church and schools was frequently filled by "Young Bilby,"
as he was familiarly called; and in 1872, aged seventy-eight, the old
parish clerk was gathered to his fathers, and his son reigned in
his stead.
The other day a copy of a Presbyterian hymn-book found its way into my
house, and there I found "Here we suffer grief and pain." I turned up
the index which gives the names of authors, wondering if the compilers
knew anything of the source from whence it came, and found the name
"Bilby"; but who "Bilby" was, and where he lived, is known to very few
outside the parish, where the name is a household word, for Mr. Bilby's
son is still the parish clerk of St. Mary, Islington, and through him we
learn that his father composed the _tune_ as well as the words of "Here
we suffer grief and pain."
As the hymn is not included in _Hymns Ancient and Modern_ or some other
well-known collection, perhaps it will be well to print the first two
verses. It is published in John Curwen's _The Child's Own Hymn Book_:
"Here we suffer grief and pain;
Here we meet to part again:
In heaven we part no more.
O! that will be joyful,
Joyful, joyful, joyful,
O! that will be joyful!
When we meet to part no more!
"All who love the Lord below,
When they die to heaven will go,
And sing with saints above.
O! that," etc.
A poet of a different school was Robert Story, schoolmaster and parish
clerk of Gargrave, Yorkshire. He was born at Wark, Northumberland, in
1795, but migrated to Gargrave in 1820, where he remained twenty years.
Then he obtained the situation of a clerk in the Audit Office, Somerset
House, at a salary of £90 a year, which he held till his death in 1860.
His volume of poems, entitled _Songs and Lyrical Poems_, contains some
charming verse. He wrote a pathetic poem on the death of the son of a
gentleman at Malham, killed while bird-nesting on the rocks of Cam Scar.
Another poem, _The Danish Camp_, tells of the visit of King Alfred to
the stronghold of his foes, and has some pretty lines. "O, love has a
favourite scene for roaming," is a tender little poem. The following
example of his verse is of a humorous and festive type. It is taken from
a volume of his productions, entitled _The Magic Fountain, and Other
Poems_, published in 1829:
"Learn next that I am parish clerk:
A noble office, by St. Mark!
It brings me in six guineas clear,
Besides _et cæteras_ every year.
I waive my Sunday duty, when
I give the solemn deep Amen;
Exalted then to breathe aloud
The heart-devotion of the crowd.
But oh, the fun! when Christmas chimes
Have ushered in the festal times,
And sent the clerk and sexton round
To pledge their friends in draughts profound,
And keep on foot the good old plan,
As only clerk and sexton can!
Nor less the sport, when Easter sees
The daisy spring to deck her leas;
Then, claim'd as dues by Mother Church,
I pluck the cackler from the perch;
Or, in its place, the shilling clasp
From grumbling dame's slow opening grasp.
But, Visitation Day! 'tis thine
Best to deserve my native line.
Great day! the purest, brightest gem
That decks the fair year's diadem.
Grand day! that sees me costless dine
And costless quaff the rosy wine,
Till seven churchwardens doubled seem,
And doubled every taper's gleam;
And I triumphant over time,
And over tune, and over rhyme,
Call'd by the gay convivial throng,
Lead, in full glee, the choral song!"
The writers of doggerel verses have been numerous. The following is a
somewhat famous composition which has been kindly sent to me by various
correspondents. My father used to tell us the rhymes when we were
children, and they have evidently become notorious. The clerk who
composed them lived in Somersetshire[67], and when the Lord Bishop of
the Diocese came to visit his church, he thought that such an occasion
ought not to be passed over without a fitting tribute to the
distinguished prelate. He therefore composed a new and revised version
of Tate and Brady's metrical rendering of Psalm lxvii., and announced
his production after this manner:
"Let us zing to the Praze an' Glory of God part of the zixty-zeventh
Zalm; zspeshul varshun zspesh'ly 'dapted vur t'cazshun.
"W'y 'op ye zo ye little 'ills?
And what var du 'ee zskip?
Is it a'cause ter prach too we
Is cum'd me Lord Biship?
"W'y zskip ye zo ye little 'ills?
An' whot var du 'ee 'op?
Is it a'cause to prach too we
Is cum'd me Lord Bishop?
"Then let us awl arize an' zing,
An' let us awl stric up,
An' zing a glawrious zong uv praze;
An' bless me Lord Bishup."
[Footnote 67: Another correspondent states that the incident occurred at
Bradford-on-Avon in 1806. Mr. Francis Bevan remembers hearing a similar
version at Dover about sixty years ago. Can it be that these various
clerks were plagiarists?]
A somewhat similar effusion was composed by Eldad Holland, parish clerk
of Christ Church, Kilbrogan parish, Bandon, County Cork, in Ireland.
This church was built in 1610, and has the reputation of being the first
edifice erected in Ireland for the use of the Church of Ireland after
the Reformation. Bandon was originally colonised by English settlers in
the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and for a long time was a noted stronghold
of Protestantism. This fact may throw light upon the opinions and
sentiments of Master Holland, an original character, whose tombstone
records that "he departed this life ye 29th day of 7ber 1722." When the
news of the victory of William III reached Bandon there were great
rejoicings, and Eldad paraphrased a portion of the morning service in
honour of the occasion. After the first lesson he gave out the
following notice:
"Let us sing to the praise and glory of William, a psalm of my own
composing:
"William is come home, come home,
William home is come,
And now let us in his praise
Sing a _Te Deum_."
He then continued: "We praise thee, O William! we acknowledge thee to be
our king!" adding with an impressive shake of the head, "And faith, a
good right we have, for it was he who saved us from brass money, wooden
shoes and Popery." He then resumed the old version, and reverently
continued it to the end[68].
[Footnote 68: This information was kindly sent to me by Mr. Robert
Clarke, of Castle Eden, Durham, who states that he derived the
information from _The History of Bandon_, by George Bennett (1869). My
father used to repeat the following version:
"King William is come home,
Come home King William is come;
So let us then together sing
A hymn that's called _Te D'um_."
I am not sure which version is the better poetry! The latter corresponds
with the version composed by Wesley's clerk at Epworth, old John; so
Clarke in his memoirs of the Wesley family records.]
In a parish in North Devon[69] there was a poetical clerk who had great
reverence for Bishop Henry Phillpotts, and on giving out the hymn he
proclaimed his regard in this form: "Let us sing to the glory of God,
and of the Lord Bishop of Exeter." On one occasion his lordship held a
confirmation in the church on 5 November, when it is said the clerk
gave out the Psalm in the usual way, adding, "in a stave of my own
composing":
"This is the day that was the night
When the Papists did conspire
To blow up the King and Parliament House
With Gundy-powdy-ire."
[Footnote 69: My kind correspondent, the Rev. J.B. Hughes, abstains from
mentioning the name of the parish.]
My informant cannot vouch for the truth of this story, but he can for
the fact that when Bishop Phillpotts on another occasion visited the
church his lordship was surprised to hear the clerk give out at the end
of the service, "Let us sing in honour of his lordship, 'God save the
King.'" The bishop rose somewhat hastily, saying to his chaplain, "Come
along, Barnes; we shall have 'Rule, Britannia!' next."
Cuthbert Bede tells the story of a poetical clerk who was much aggrieved
because some disagreeable and naughty folk had maliciously damaged his
garden fence. On the next Sunday he gave out "a stave of his own
composing":
"Oh, Lord, how doth the wicked man;
They increases more and more;
They break the posts, likewise the rails
Around this poor clerk's door."
He almost deserved his fate for barbarously mutilating a metrical Psalm,
and was evidently a proper victim of poetical justice.
A Devonshire clerk wrote the following noble effort:--
"Mount Edgcumbe is a pleasant place
Right o'er agenst the Ham-o-aze,
Where ships do ride at anchor,
To guard us agin our foes. Amen."
Besides writing "hymns of his own composing," the parish clerk often
used to give vent to his poetical talents in the production of epitaphs.
The occupation of writing epitaphs must have been a lucrative one, and
the effusions recording the numerous virtues of the deceased are quaint
and curious. Well might a modern English child ask her mother after
hearing these records read to her, "Where were all the bad people
buried?" Learned scholars and abbots applied their talents to the
production of the Latin verses inscribed on old brass memorials of the
dead, and clever ladies like Dame Elizabeth Hobby sometimes wrote them
and appended their names to their compositions. In later times this task
seems to have been often undertaken by the parish clerk with not
altogether satisfactory results, though incumbents and great poets,
among whom may be enumerated Pope and Byron, sometimes wrote memorials
of their friends. But the clerk was usually responsible for these
inscriptions. Master John Hopkins, clerk at one of the churches at
Salisbury at the end of the eighteenth century, issued an advertisement
of his various accomplishments which ran thus:
"John Hopkins, parish clerk and undertaker, sells epitaphs of
all sorts and prices. Shaves neat, and plays the bassoon.
Teeth drawn, and the Salisbury Journal read gratis every
Sunday morning at eight. A school for psalmody every Thursday
evening, when my son, born blind, will play the fiddle.
Specimen epitaph on my wife:
My wife ten years, not much to my ease,
But now she is dead, in cælo quies.
Great variety to be seen within. Your humble servant, John
Hopkins."
Poor David Diggs, the hero of Hewett's story of _The Parish Clerk_, used
to write epitaphs in strange and curious English. Just before his death
he put a small piece of paper into the hands of the clergyman of the
parish, and whispered a request that its contents might be attended to.
When the clergyman afterwards read the paper he found the following
epitaph, which was duly inscribed on the clerk's grave:
"Reader Don't stop nor shed no tears
For I was parish clerk For 60 years;
If I lived on I could not now as Then
Say to the Parson's Prases A loud Amen."
A very worthy poetical clerk was John Bennet, shoemaker, of Woodstock. A
long account of him appears in the _Lives of Illustrious Shoemakers_,
written by W.E. Winks. He inherited the office of parish clerk from his
father, and with it some degree of musical taste. In the preface to his
poems he wrote: "Witness my early acquaintance with the pious strains of
Sternhold and Hopkins, under that melodious psalmodist my honoured
Father, and your approved Parish Clerk." This is addressed to the Rev.
Thomas Warton, Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and sometime curate of
Woodstock, to whose patronage and ready aid John Bennet was greatly
indebted. Southey, who succeeded Warton in the Professorship, wrote that
"This Woodstock shoemaker was chiefly indebted for the patronage which
he received to Thomas Warton's good nature; for my predecessor was the
best-hearted man that ever wore a great wig." Certainly the list of
subscribers printed at the beginning of his early work is amazingly
long. Noblemen, squires, parsons, great ladies, all rushed to secure the
cobbler-clerk's poems, which were published in 1774. The poems consist
mainly of simple rhymes or rustic themes, and are not without merit or
humour. He is very modest and humble about his poetical powers, and
tells that his reason for publishing his verses was "to enable the
author to rear an infant offspring and to drive away all anxious
solicitude from the breast of a most amiable wife." His humour is shown
in the conclusion of his Dedication, where he wrote:
"I had proceeded thus far when I was called to measure a gentleman of a
certain college for a pair of fashionable boots, and the gentleman
having insisted on a perusal of what I was writing, told me that a
dedication should be as laconic as the boots he had employed me to make;
and then, taking up my pen, added this scrap of Latin for a Heel-piece,
as he called it, to my Dedication:
"_Jam satis est; ne me Crispini scrinia lippi
Compilasse putes, vertum non amplius_."
The cobbler poet concludes his verses with the humorous lines:
"So may our cobler rise by friendly aid,
Be happy and successful in his trade;
His awl and pen with readiness be found,
To make or keep our understandings sound."
Later in life John Bennet published another volume, entitled
_Redemption_. It was dedicated to Dr. Mavor, rector of Woodstock. It is
a noble poem, far exceeding in merit his first essay, and it is a
remarkable and wonderful composition for a self-taught village
shoemaker. The author-clerk died and was buried at Woodstock in 1803.
A fine character and graceful poet was Richard Furness[70], parish clerk
of Dore, five miles from Shalfield, a secluded hamlet. He was then
styled "The Poet of the Peak," of sonorous voice and clear of speech,
the author of many poems, and factotum supreme of the village and
neighbourhood. Two volumes of his poems have been published. He
combined, like many of his order, the office of parish clerk with that
of schoolmaster, his schoolroom being under the same roof as his house.
Thither crowds flocked. He was an immense favourite. The teacher of
children, healer of all the lame and sick folk, the consoler and adviser
of the troubled, he played an important part in the village life. His
accomplishments were numerous. He could make a will, survey or convey an
estate, reduce a dislocation, perform the functions of a parish clerk,
lead a choir, and write an ode. This remarkable man was born at Eyam in
1791, the village so famous for the story of its plague, in an old house
long held by his family. Over the door is carved:
R. 1615. F
[Footnote 70: _Biographical Sketches of Remarkable People_, by Spencer
T. Hall.]
When a boy he was very fond of reading, and studied mathematics and
poetry. _Don Quixote_ was his favourite romance. His father would not
allow him to read at night, but the student could not be prevented from
studying his beloved books. In order to prevent the light in his bedroom
from being seen in other parts of the house, he placed a candle in a
large box, knelt by its side, and with the lid half closed few rays of
the glimmering taper could reach the window or door. When he grew to be
a man he migrated to Dore, and there set up a school, and began that
active life of which an admirable account is given by Dr. G. Calvert
Holland in the introduction of _The Poetical Works of Richard Furness_,
published in 1858. In addition to other duties he sometimes discharged
clerical functions. The vicar of the parish of Dore, Mr. Parker, was
somewhat old and infirm, and sometimes found it difficult to tramp over
the high moors in winter to privately baptize a sick child. So he often
sent his clerk to perform the duty. On dark and stormy nights Richard
Furness used to tramp over moor and fell, through snow and rain to some
lonely farm or moorland cottage in order to baptize some suffering
infant. On one occasion he omitted to ascertain before commencing the
service whether the child was a boy or a girl. Turning to the father in
the midst of a prayer, when the question whether he ought to use _his_
or _her_ had to be decided, he inquired, "What sex?" The father, an
ignorant labourer, did not understand the meaning of the question. "Male
or female?" asked the clerk. Still the father did not comprehend. At
last the meaning of the query dawned upon his rustic intelligence, and
he whispered, "It's a mon childt."
Thus does Richard Furness in his poems describe his many duties:
"I Richard Furness, schoolmaster, Dore,
Keep parish books and pay the poor;
Draw plans for buildings and indite
Letters for those who cannot write;
Make wills and recommend a proctor;
Cure wounds, let blood with any doctor;
Draw teeth, sing psalms, the hautboy play
At chapel on each holy day;
Paint sign-boards, cast names at command,
Survey and plot estates of land:
Collect at Easter, one in ten,
And on the Sunday say Amen."
He wrote a poem entitled _Medicus Magus, or the Astrologer_, a droll
story brimming over with quiet humour, folk-lore, philology and archaic
lore. Also _The Ragbag_, which is dedicated to "John Bull, Esq." The
style of his poetry was Johnsonian, or after the manner of Erasmus
Darwin, a bard whom the present generation has forgotten, but whose
_Botanic Garden_, published in 1825, is full of quaint plant-lore and
classical allusions, if it does not reach the highest form of poetic
talent. Here is a poem by our clerkly poet on the Old Year's funeral:
"The clock in oblivion's mouldering tower
By the raven's nest struck the midnight hour,
And the ghosts of the seasons wept over the bier
Of Old Time's last son--the departing year.
"Spring showered her daisies and dews on his bed,
Summer covered with roses his shelterless head,
And as Autumn embalmed his bodiless form,
Winter wove his snow shroud in his Jacquard of storm;
For his coffin-plate, charged with a common device,
Frost figured his arms on a tablet of ice,
While a ray from the sun in the interim came,
And daguerreotyped neatly his age, death, and name.
Then the shadowing months at call
Stood up to bear the pall,
And three hundred and sixty-five days in gloom
Formed a vista that reached from his birth to his tomb.
And oh, what a progeny followed in tears--
Hours, minutes, and moments--the children of years!
Death marshall'd th' array,
Slowly leading the way,
With his darts newly fashioned for New Year's Day."
Richard Furness died in 1857, and was buried with his ancestors at Eyam.
He thus sang his own requiem shortly before he passed away:
"To joys and griefs, to hopes and fears,
To all pride would, and power could do,
To sorrow's cup, to pity's tears,
To mortal life, to death adieu."
I will conclude this chapter on poetical clerks with a sweet carol for
Advent, written by Mr. Daniel Robinson, ex-parish clerk of Flore,
Weedon, which is worthy of preservation:
A CAROL FOR ADVENT
"Behold, thy King cometh unto thee."--MATTHEW xxi. 5.
Behold, thy King is coming
Upon this earth to reign,
To take away oppression
And break the captive's chain;
Then trim your lamps, ye virgins,
Your oil of love prepare,
To meet the coming Bridegroom
Triumphant in the air.
Behold, thy King is coming,
Hark! 'tis the midnight cry,
The herald's voice proclaimeth
The hour is drawing nigh;
Then go ye forth to meet Him,
With lamps all burning bright,
Let sweet hosannahs greet Him,
And welcome Him aright.
Go decorate your churches
With evergreens and flowers,
And let the bells' sweet music
Resound from all your towers;
And sing your sweetest anthems,
For lo, your King is nigh,
While songs of praise are soaring
O'er vale and mountain high.
Let sounds of heavenly music
From sweet-voiced organs peal,
While old and young assembling
Before God's "Altar" kneel;
In humble adoration
Let each one praise and pray,
And give the King a welcome
This coming Christmas Day.