CHAPTER XX

RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD CLERKS AND THEIR WAYS

Personal recollections of the manners and curious ways of old village

clerks are valuable, and several writers have kindly favoured me with

the descriptions of these quaint personages, who were well known to them

in the days of their youth.

The clerk of a Midland village was an old man who combined with his

sacred functions the secular calling of the keeper of the village inn.

He was very deaf, and consequently spoke in a loud, harsh voice, and

scraps of conversation which were heard in the squire's high square box

pew occasioned much amusement among the squire's sons. The Rev. W.V.

Vickers records the following incidents:

It was "Sacrament Sunday," and part of the clerk's duty was to prepare

the Elements in the vestry, which was under the western tower.

Apparently the wine was not forthcoming when wanted, and we heard the

following stage-aside in broad Staffordshire: "Weir's the bottle? Oh!

'ere it is, under the teeble (table) all the whoile."

Another part of his duty was to sing in the choir, for which purpose he

used to leave the lower deck of the three-decker and hobble with his

heavy oak stick to the chancel for the canticles and hymns, and having

swelled the volume of praise, hobble back again, a pause being made for

his journey both to and fro. Not only did he sing in the choir but he

gave out the hymns. This he did in a peculiar sing-song voice with

up-and-down cadences: "Let us sing (low) to the praise (high) and glory

(low) of God (high) the hundredth (low) psalm (high)." Very much the

same intonation accompanied his reading of the alternate verses of

the Psalms.

On one occasion a locum tenens, who officiated for a few weeks, was

_stone_ deaf. Hence a difficulty arose in his knowing when our worthy,

and the congregation, had finished each response or verse. This the

clerk got over by keeping one hand well forward upon his book and

raising the fingers as he came to the close. This was the signal to the

deaf man above him that it was _his_ turn! The old man, by half sitting

upon a table in the belfry, could chime the four bells. It was his

habit, instead of going by his watch, to look out for the first

appearance of my father's carriage (an old-fashioned "britska," I

believe it was called, with yellow body and wheels and large black hood,

and so very conspicuous) at a certain part of the road, and then, and

not till then, commence chiming. It was a compliment to my father's

punctuality; but what happened when, by chance, he failed to attend

church I know not--but such occasions were rare[92].

[Footnote 92: In olden days it seems to have been the usual practice in

many churches to delay service until the advent of the squire. Every one

knows the old story of how, through some inadvertence, the minister had

not looked out to see that the great man was in his accustomed pew. He

began, "When the wicked man--" The parish clerk tugged him by his coat,

saying, "Please, sir, he hasn't come yet!" As to whether the clergyman

took the hint and waited for "the wicked man" history sayeth not.

Another clerk told a young deacon, who was impatient to begin the

service, "You must wait a bit, sir, we ain't ready." He then clambered

on the Communion table, and peered through the east window, which

commanded a view of the door in the wall of the squire's garden. "Come

down!" shouted the curate. "I can see best where I be," replied the

imperturbable clerk; "I'm watching the garden door. Here she be, and the

squire." Whereupon he clambered down again, and without much further

delay the service proceeded.]

Our _parish_ church we seldom attended, for the simple reason that the

aged vicar was scarcely audible; but there the clerk, after robing the

vicar, mounted to the gallery above the vestry, where, taking a front

seat, he watched for the exit of the vicar (whose habit it was to wait

for the young men, who also waited in the church porch for him to begin

the service!), and then, taking his seat at the organ, commenced the

voluntary. It was his duty also to give out the hymns. I have known him

play an eight-line tune to a four-line verse (or psalm--we used Tate and

Brady), repeating the words of each verse twice!

The organ produced the most curious sounds. In course of time the mice

got into it, and the churchwardens, of whom the clerk was one,

approached the vicar with the information, at the same time venturing a

hint that the organ was quite worn out and that a harmonium would be

more acceptable to the congregation than the present music. His reply

was that a harmonium was not a sufficiently sacred instrument, and

added, "Let a mouse-trap be set at once."

Robert Dicker, quondam cabinet-maker in the town of Crediton, Devon,

reigned for many years as parish clerk to the, at one time, collegiate

church of the same town. He appears to have fulfilled his office

satisfactorily up to about 1870, when his mind became somewhat feeble.

Nevertheless, no desire was apparent to shorten the days of his office,

as he was regular in his attendance and musically inclined; but when he

began to play pranks upon the vicar it became necessary to consider the

advisability of finding a substitute who should do the work and receive

half the pay. One of his escapades was to stand up in the middle of

service and call the vicar a liar; at another time he announced that a

wedding was to take place on a certain day. The vicar, therefore,

attended and waited for an hour, when the clerk affirmed that he must

have dreamed it! Dicker was given to the study of astronomy, and it is

related that he once gave a lecture on this subject in the Public Rooms.

There is close to the town a small park in memory of one of the Duller

family. A man one night was much alarmed when walking therein to

discover a bright light in one of the trees, and, later, to hear the

voice of the worthy clerk, who addressed him in these words: "Fear not,

my friend, and do not be affrighted. I am Robert Dicker, clerk of the

parish. I am examining the stars." Another account alleges that he

affirmed himself to be "counting the stars." Whichever account is the

true one, it will be gathered that he was already "far gone."

Another of his achievements was the conversion of a barrel organ,

purchased from a neighbouring church, into a manual, obtaining the wind

therefor by a pedal arrangement which worked a large wheel attached to a

crank working the bellows. On all great festivals and especially on

Christmas Day he was wont to rouse the neighbourhood as early as three

and four o'clock, remarking of the ungrateful, complaining neighbours

that they had no heart for music or religion.

The wheel mentioned above was part of one of his tricycle schemes. His

first attempt in cycle-making resulted in the construction of a bicycle

the wheels of which resembled the top of a round deal table; this soon

came to grief. His second endeavour was more successful and became a

tricycle, the wheels of which were made of wrought iron and the base of

a triangular shape. Upon the large end he placed an arm-chair, averring

that it would be useful to rest in whenever he should grow weary! Then,

making another attempt, he succeeded in turning out (being aided by

another person) a very respectable and useful tricycle upon which he

made many journeys to Barnstaple and elsewhere.

However, just as an end comes to everything that is mortal, so did an

end come to our friend the clerk; for, as so many stories finish, he

died in a good old age, and his substitute reigned in his stead.

The following reminiscences of a parish clerk were sent by the Rev.

Augustus G. Legge, who has since died.

It is reported of an enthusiastic archæologian that he blessed the day

of the Commonwealth because, he said, if Cromwell and all his

destructive followers had never lived, there would have been no ruins in

the country to repay the antiquary's researches. And the converse of

this is true of a race of men who before long will be "improved" off the

face of the earth, if the restoration of our parish churches is to go on

at the present rate. I allude to the old parish clerks of our boy-hood

days. Who does not remember their quaint figures and quainter, though

somewhat irreverent, manner of leading the responses of the

congregation? It is well indeed that our churches, sadly given over to

the laxity and carelessness of a bygone age, should be renovated and

beautified, the tone of the services raised, and the "bray" of the old

clerks, unsuited to the devotional feelings of a more enlightened day,

silenced, but still a shade of regret will be mingled with their

dismissal, if only for the sake of the large stock of amusing anecdotes

which their names recall.

My earliest recollections are connected with old Russell[93], my

father's clerk. He was a little man but possessed of a consequential

manner sufficient for a giant. A shoemaker by trade, his real element

was in the church. His conversation was embellished by high-flown

grandiloquence, and he invariably walked upon the heels of his boots.

This latter peculiarity, as may well be imagined, was the cause of a

most comical effect whenever he had occasion to leave his seat and

clatter down the aisle of the church. How often when a boy did I make my

old nurse's sides shake with laughter by imitating old Russell's walk!

His manner of reading the responses in the service can only be compared

to a kind of bellow--as my father used to say, "he bellowed like a

calf"--and his rendering of parts of it was calculated to raise a smile

upon the lips of the most devout. The following are a few instances of

his perversions of the text. "Leviathan" under his quaint manipulation

became "leather thing," his trade of shoemaker helping him, no doubt, to

his interpretation. Whether he had ever attended a fish-dinner at

Greenwich and his mind had thus become impressed with the number and

variety of the inhabitants of the deep, history does not record, but, be

that as it may, "Bring hither the tabret" was invariably read as "Bring

hither the turbot." "Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego" did service for

"Ananias, Azarias, and Misael" in the "Benedicite," and "Destructions

are come to a perpetual end" was transmogrified into "_parental_ end" in

the ninth Psalm. My father once took the trouble to point out and try to

correct some of his inaccuracies, but he never attempted it again. Old

Russell listened attentively and respectfully, but when the lecture was

over he dismissed the subject with a superior shake of the head and the

disdainful remark, "Well, sir, I have heerd tell of people who think

with you." Never a bit though did he make any change in his own peculiar

rendering of the Bible and Book of Common Prayer.

[Footnote 93: Old Russell, for many years clerk of the parish of East

Lavant in the county of Sussex.]

There was one occasion on which he especially distinguished himself, and

I shall never forget it. A farmyard of six outbuildings abutted upon the

church burial ground, and it was but natural that all the fowls should

stray into it to feed and enjoy themselves in the grass. Amongst these

was a goodly flock of guinea-fowls, which oftentimes no little disturbed

the congregation by their peculiar cry of "Come back! come back! come

back!" One Sunday the climax of annoyance was reached when the whole

flock gathered around the west door just as my father was beginning to

read the first lesson. His voice, never at any time very strong, was

completely drowned. Whereupon old Russell hastily left his seat, book in

hand, and clattering as usual on his heels down the aisle disappeared

through the door on vengeance bent. The discomfiture of the offending

fowls was instantly apparent by the change in their cry to one more

piercing still as they fled away in terror. Then all was still, and

back comes old Russell, a gleam of triumph on his face and somewhat out

of breath, but nevertheless able without much difficulty to take up the

responses in the canticle which followed the lesson. Scarcely, however,

had the congregation resumed their seats for the reading of the second

lesson when the offending flock again gathered round the west door, and

again, as if in defiant derision of Russell, raised their mocking cry of

"Come back! come back! come back!" And back accordingly he went clatter,

clatter down the aisle, a stern resolution flashing from his eye, and

causing the little boys as he passed to quail before him. Now it so

happened that the lesson was a short one, and, moreover, Russell took

more time, making a farther excursion into the churchyard than before,

in order if possible to be rid entirely of the noisy intruders. Just as

he returned to the church door, this time completely breathless, the

first verse of the canticle which followed was being read, but Russell

was equal to the occasion. All breathless as he was, without a moment's

hesitation, he opened his book at the place and bellowed forth the

responses as he proceeded up the church to his seat. The scene may be

imagined, but scarcely described: Russell's quaint little figure, the

broad-rimmed spectacles on his nose, the ponderous book in his hands,

the clatter of his heels, the choking gasps with which he bellowed out

the words as he laboured for breath, and finally the sudden

disappearance of the congregation beneath the shelter of their high pews

with a view to giving vent to their feelings unobserved--all this

requires to have been witnessed to be fully appreciated.

It chanced one Sunday that a parishioner coming into church after the

service had begun omitted to close the door, causing thereby an

unseemly draught. My father directed Russell to shut it. Accordingly,

book in hand and with a thumb between the leaves to keep the place, he

sallied forth. But, alas! in shutting the door the thumb fell out and

the place was lost, and after floundering about awhile to find, if

possible, the proper response, he at length made known to the

congregation the misfortune which had befallen him by exclaiming aloud,

"I've lost my place or _summut_."

A very amusing incident once took place at a baptism. The service

proceeded with due decorum and regularity till my father demanded of the

godfather the child's name. The answer was so indistinctly given that he

had to repeat the question more than once, and even then the name

remained a mystery. All he could make out was something which sounded

like "Harmun," the godfather indignantly asserting the while that it was

a "Scriptur" name. In his perplexity my father turned to Russell with

the query: "Clerk, do you know what the name is?" "No, sir. I'm sure I

don't know, unless it be he at the end of the prayer," meaning "Amen."

The result was that the child was otherwise christened, and after the

ceremony was over my father, placing a Bible in the godfather's hands,

requested him to find the "Scriptur" name, as he called it, when, having

turned over the leaves for some time, he drew his attention to _wicked

Haman_. The child's escape, therefore, was most fortunate. Old Russell

has now slept with his fathers for many years, and the few stories which

I have related about him do not by any means exhaust the list of his

oddities. Many of the parishioners to this day, no doubt, will call to

mind the quaint way in which, if he thought any one was misbehaving

himself in church, he would rise slowly from his seat with such majesty

as his diminutive stature could command, and shading his spectacles with

his hand, gaze sternly in the offending quarter; how on a certain

Communion Sunday he forgot the wine to be used in the sacred office, and

when my father directed his attention to the omission, after sundry

dives under the altar-cloth he at last produced a common rush basket,

and from it a black bottle; how on another Sunday, being desirous to

free the church from smoke which had escaped from a refractory stove, he

deliberately mounted upon the altar and remained standing there while he

opened a small lattice in the east window. All these circumstances will,

no doubt, be recalled by some one or other in the parish. But, gentle

reader, be not overharsh in passing judgment upon him. I verily believe

that he had no more desire to be irreverent than you or I have. The

fault lay rather in the religious coldness and carelessness of those

days than in him. He was liked and respected by every one as a harmless,

inoffensive, good-hearted old fellow, and I cannot better close this

brief account of some of his peculiarities than by saying--as I do with

all my heart--Peace to his ashes!

* * * * *

Mr. Legge's baptismal story reminds me of a friend who was christening

the child of a gipsy, when the name given was "Neptin." This puzzled him

sorely, but suddenly recollecting that he had baptized another gipsy

child "Britannia," without any hesitation he at once named the infant

"Neptune." Mr. Eagles was once puzzled when the sponsor gave the name

"Acts." "'Acts!' said I. 'What do you mean?' Thinks I to myself, I will

_ax_ the clerk to spell it. He did: A-C-T-S. So Acts was the babe, and

will be while in this life, and will be doubly, trebly so registered if

ever he marries or dies. Afterwards, in the vestry, I asked the good

woman what made her choose such a name. Her answer _verbatim_: 'Why,

sir, we be religious people; we've got your on 'em already, and they be

caal'd Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, and so my husband thought we'd

compliment the apostles a bit.'"

Mr. Legge adds the following stories:

My first curacy was in Norfolk in the year 1858, a period when the old

style of parish clerk had not disappeared. On one occasion I was asked

by a friend in a neighbouring parish to take a funeral service for him.

On arriving at the church I was received by a very eccentric clerk. It

seemed as if his legs were hung upon wires, and before the service began

he danced about the church in a most peculiar and laughable manner, and

in addition to this he had a hideous squint, one eye looking north and

the other south. The service proceeded with due decorum until we arrived

at the grave, when those who were preparing to lower the coffin in it

discovered that it had not been dug large enough to receive it. This of

course created a very awkward pause while it was made larger, and the

chief mourner utilised it by gently remonstrating with the clerk for his

carelessness. In reply he gave a solemn shake of his head, cast one eye

into the grave and the other at the chief mourner, and merely remarked,

"Putty (pretty) nigh though," meaning that the offence after all was not

so very great, as he had almost accomplished his task. Obliged to keep

my countenance, I had, as may be imagined, some difficulty.

A very amusing incident once took place when I had a couple before me

to be married. All went well until I asked the question, "Who giveth

this woman to be married to this man?" when an individual stepped

forward, and snatching the ring out of the bride-groom's hand, began

placing it on a finger of the bride. As all was confusion I signed to

the old clerk to put matters straight. Attired in a brown coat and

leather gaiters, with spectacles on his nose, and a large Prayer Book in

his hands, he came shuffling forward from the background, exclaiming out

loud, "Bless me, bless me! never knew such a thing happen afore in all

my life!" The service was completed without any further interruption,

but again I had a sore difficulty in keeping my countenance.

Many years ago ecclesiastical matters in Norfolk were in a very slack

state--rectors and vicars lived away from their parishes, subscribing

amongst them to pay the salary of a curate to undertake the church

services. As his duties were consequently manifold some parishes were

without his presence on Sunday for a month and sometimes longer. The

parish clerk would stand outside the church and watch for the coming

parson, and if he saw him in the distance would immediately begin to

toll the bell; if not, the parish was without a service on that day.

It happened on one of these monthly occasions that on the arrival of the

parson at the church he was met by the clerk at the door, who, pulling

his forelock, addressed him as follows: "Sir, do yew mind a prachin in

the readin' desk to-day?" "Yes," was the reply; "the pulpit is the

proper place." "Well, sir, you see we fare to have an old guse a-sittin'

in the pulpit. She'll be arf her eggs to-morrow; 'twould be a shame to

take her arf to-day."

The pulpit was considered as convenient a place as any for the "old

guse" to hatch her young in.

Canon Venables contributes the following:

The first parish clerk I can in the least degree remember was certainly

entitled to be regarded as a "character," albeit not in all moral

respects what would be called a moral character. Shrewd, clever, and

better informed than the inhabitants of his little village of some

eighty folk, he was not "looked up to," but was regarded with suspicion,

and, in short, was not popular, while treated with a certain amount of

deference, being a man of some knowledge and ability. The clergyman was

a man of excellent character, learned, a fluent _ex-tempore_ preacher,

and one who liked the services to be nicely conducted. He came over

every Sunday and ministered two services. In those days the only organ

was a good long pitch-pipe constructed principally of wood and, I

imagine, about twelve inches in length. But upon the parish clerk

devolved the onerous (and it may be added in this case sonorous) duty of

starting the hymn and the singing. In those days few could read, and the

method was adopted (and I know successfully adopted a few years later)

of announcing two lines of the verse to be sung, and sometimes the whole

verse. But Mr. W.M. was unpopular, and people did not always manifest a

willingness to sing with him.

At last a crisis came. The hymn and psalm were announced. The pitch-pipe

rightly adjusted gave the proper keynote, and the clerk essayed to sing.

But from some cause matters were not harmonious and none attempted to

help the clerk.

With a scowl not worthy of a saint, the offended official turned round

upon the congregation and closed all further attempts at psalm-singing

by stating clearly and distinctly, "I shan't sing if nobody don't

foller." This man was deposed ere long, and deservedly, if village

suspicions were truthful.

After which, I think, he usually came just inside the church once every

Sunday, but never to get further than to take a seat close to the door.

He died at a great age. Two or three of his successors were worthy men.

One of them would carefully recite the Psalms for the coming Sunday

within church or elsewhere during the week, and he read with proper

feeling and good sense.

Another of the same little parish, well up in his Bible, once helped the

very excellent clergyman at a baptism in a critical moment. "Name this

child." "Zulphur." This was not a correct name. Another effort,

"Sulphur." The clergyman was in difficulty. The clerk was equal to the

occasion, for the parson was well up in his Bible too.

"Leah's handmaid," suggested the clerk. "Zilpah, I baptize thee," said

the priest, and all was well.

In that church the few farmers who met to levy a poor-rate and do other

parochial work insisted on doing so within the chancel rails, using the

holy table as the writing-desk, and the assigned reason for so doing was

that, being apt to quarrel and dispute over parish matters, there would

be no danger _at such a place_ as this of using profane language. All in

the diocese of Oxford.

It was in the twenties that I must have seen old P.W. (the parish clerk)

and two other men in the desk singing to "Hanover," with a certain

apparent self-complacency in nice smock-frocks, "My soul, praise the

Lord, speak good of His Name," etc. The little congregation listened

with seeming contentment, and it is worth recording that the parson

always preached in the surplice. I suppose Pusey was a boy at that time,

but the custom in this church was not a novelty, whether right or wrong.

It was not the clerk's fault that the hour of service was hastened by

some seventy minutes one afternoon, so that one or two invariably late

worshippers were astounded to be driven backwards from the church by the

congregation returning from service. But so it was. The really

well-meaning kind-hearted parson was withal a keen sportsman and a

worthy gentleman, and with his "long dogs" and man was on his horse and

away for Illsley Downs race course to come off next day, and his dogs

(they won) must not be fatigued. Old P.W., the clerk, reached a good

age, an inoffensive man.

I was rather interested when residing in my parish in grand old

Yorkshire to observe two steady-looking and rather elderly men, each

aided by a strong walking-stick, coming to church with praiseworthy

regularity and reverence. I found, on making their acquaintance, that

they were brothers who had recently come into the parish, natives of

"the Peak," or of the locality near the Peak, which was not many miles

distant from my parish.

Since I heard from their lips the story which I am about to relate, I

have heard it told, _mutatis mutandis_, as happening in sundry other

parishes, until one rather doubts the genuineness of the record at all.

But as they recounted it it ran as follows, and I am sure they believed

what they told me.

Some malicious person or persons unknown entered the church, and having

seized the rather large typed Prayer Book used by the clerk, who was

somewhat advanced in years, they observed that the words "the righteous

shall flourish like" were the last words at the bottom of the page,

whereupon they altered the next words on the top of the following page,

and which were "the palm tree," into "a green bay horse"; and, the

change being carefully made, the result on the Sunday following was that

the well-meaning clerk, studiously uttering each word of his Prayer

Book, found himself declaring very erroneous doctrine. "Hulloa," cried

he; "I must hearken back. This'll never do." Now I cannot call to mind

the name of the parish. It was not Chapel-in-the-Frith. Was it

Mottram-in-Longdendale? I really cannot remember. But these two old men

asserted that thenceforward it became a saying, "I must hearken back,

like the clerk of--."

I recollect preaching one weekday night (and people would crowd the

churches on weekday evenings fifty years ago far more readily than they

do now) at some wild place in Lancashire or Yorkshire, I think

Lancashire. I was taken to see and stand upon a stepping stone outside

the church, and close against the south wall of the sacred edifice, upon

which almost every Sunday the clerk, as the people were leaving church,

ascended and in a loud voice announced any matters concerning the parish

which it appeared desirable to proclaim. In this way any intended sales

were made known, the loss of sheep or cattle on the moors was announced,

and almost anything appertaining to the secular welfare of the

parishioners was made public. I do not state this to criticise it. It

was in some degree a recognition of the charity which ought to realise

the sympathy in each other's welfare which we ought all to display. It

was in those primitive times and localities a specimen of the

simplicity and well-meant interest in the welfare of the neighbour as

well as of oneself, although perhaps the secular sometimes did much to

extinguish the spiritual.

[Illustration: SUNDAY MORNING]

Few people now realise what a business it was to light up a church, say,

eighty years ago. But the worthy old clerk, in a wig bestowed on him by

the pious and aged patron, is hastening to illuminate his church with

old-fashioned candles, in which he is aided not a little by his faithful

wife, who, like Abraham's wife, regarded her husband as her lord and

responded to the name of Sarah. The good old man--and he was a good old

man--was perhaps a little bit "flustered and flurried," for the folk

were gathering within the sacred temple, and W.L. was anxious to

complete his task of lighting the loft, or gallery. "I say, Sally, hand

us up a little taste of candle," cried her lord, and Sarah obeyed, and

the illumination was soon complete.

But, really, few men "gave out" or announced a hymn with truer and more

touching and devout feeling than did that old clerk. I am one of those

who do not think that all the changes in the ministration of Church

services are, after experience had, desirable. I think that in many

instances the lay clerk ought to have been instructed in the performance

of his duties, to the profit of all concerned. And I deem that this

proceeding would have been a far wiser proceeding than any substitution

of the man or his function. There is ancient authority for a clerk or

clerks. It is wise to secure work to be attended to in the functions of

divine service for as many laymen as possible, consistent with principle

and propriety. W.L. was an old man when I saw him, but I can hear him

now as with a pathos quite touching and teaching, because done so

simply and naturally, he announced, singing:

"Salvation, what a glorious theme,

How suited to our need.

The grace that rescues fallen man

Is wonderful indeed."

And though he pronounced the last word but one as if spelt "woonderful,"

I venture to say that the "giving out" of that verse by that aged clerk

with his venerable wig and with a voice trembling a little by age, but

more by natural emotion, was preferable to many modern modes of

announcing a hymn.

It was common to say "Let us sing, to the praise and glory of God." It

is common to be shocked, nowadays, by such an invitation. Are we as

reverent now as then? Do we sing praises with understanding better? I

think it is not so.

I knew a very respectable man, W.K., a tailor by trade, a well-conducted

man, but who felt the importance of his office to an extent that made

him nervous, or (what is as bad) made him fancy he was nervous. The

church was capacious, and the population over two thousand.

A large three-decker, though the pulpit was at a right angle with the

huge prayer-desk and the clerk's citadel below, well stained and

varnished, formed an important portion of the furniture of the church,

the whole structure, as we were reminded by large letters above the

chancel arch, having been "Adorn'd and beautified 1814," the names of

the churchwardens being also recorded. This clerk was observed

frequently, during the service, to stoop down within his little "pew" as

if to imbibe something. He was inquired of as to his strange proceeding,

when he frankly stated that he felt the trials of his duties to be so

great, that he always fortified himself with a little bottle containing

some gin and some water, to which bottle he made frequent appeals during

the often rather lengthy services. He had to proclaim the notices of

vestry meetings of all kinds, as well as to give out the hymns; but what

astonishes me is that he baptized many infants at their homes instead of

the most excellent vicar, when circumstances made it difficult for the

really good vicar to attend.

I saw him, one first Sunday in Lent, stand up on the edge of his square

box or pew, and conduct a rather long consultation with the vicar, a

very spiritually minded, excellent man, upon which we were put through

the whole Commination Service which, though appointed for Ash Wednesday,

was wholly neglected until it lengthened out the Sunday morning of the

first _in_ but not _of_ Lent, and having nothing to do with the forty

days of Lent.

The well-conducted man lived to a good age, and after his death a rather

costly stained glass window was erected to his memory under the active

influence of a new vicar. When privately engaged in church he wore his

usual silk hat, though not approving of any one so behaving.

I recollect, in a large church in a large town, the clerk, arrayed

(properly, I think) in a suitable black gown, giving out the hymn, in a

tone to be regretted, but where the obvious remedy was not to dethrone

the clerk, but rather to have just suggested the propriety of reading

the entire verse, as well as of avoiding a tone lugubrious on

the occasion.

It was Easter Day, and the hymn quite appropriate, but not so

_rendered_ as the clerk heavily and drearily announced:

"The Lord is risen indeed,

And are the tidings true?"

as if there might exist a doubt about this glorious fact.

Pity that he did not enter into the spirit of the verse and add:

"Yes! we beheld the Saviour bleed,

And saw Him rising too."

Within about ten miles nearer to Windsor Castle the clerk of a church in

which not a few nobility usually worshipped, was altogether at fault in

his "H's," as he exhorted the people to sing, "The Heaster Im with the

Allelujer, _h_et the _h_end of _h_every line." Other clerks may have

done the same. He did it, I know well.

Throughout the whole of my very imperfect ministry I have sought to

practise catechising in church every Sunday afternoon, and very strongly

desire to urge the practice of it in every church every Sunday.

It is one of the most difficult parts of the glorious ministry since the

time of St. Luke that can engage the attention of the ordained ministers

of Christ's Church. It needs to be done well. It ought not to be a very

nice, simple sermonette. This, though very beautiful, is not

catechising. Perhaps, if at once followed by questions upon the

sermonette, it might thus become very useful. But a catechesis in which

the catechist simply tells a simple story or gives an amusing anecdote,

or when questioning, so puts his inquiries that "yes" and "no" are the

listless replies that are drawn forth from the lads and girls, is not

interesting or profitable. Whenever I have the opportunity I go to an

afternoon catechetical service. Some failed by being made into the time

of a small preachment; some because in a few minutes the catechist

easily asked questions and then answered them himself. Others were

really magnificent, securing the attention and drawing forth answers

admirably. Was it the great bishop Samuel Wilberforce who said, "A boy

may preach, but it takes a man to catechise"?

I cannot boast of being a good catechist; but I know that catechising

costs me more mental exhaustion (alas! with sad depression under a sense

of trial of temper and failure) than any sermon. But I will say to any

clergyman, _My dear brother, catechise; try, persevere, keep on. It will

not be in vain. But secure an answer_. If need be, become a

cross-examining advocate for Christ, and don't give up until you have

made the catechumens, by dint of a variety of ways of putting the

question, give the answer you desired. You have made them think and call

memory into play, and made them feel that they "knew it all the time,"

if only they had reflected. And you have given them a "power of good."

But what has all this to do with a clerk? Well, I want to tell what made

me _try_ to be a good catechist, and what makes me, over eighty-three

years of age, _still wish_ to become such, though the incident must have

happened some seventy years ago, for I recollect that on the very Sunday

we crossed the Greta my father whispered to me as we were on the bridge

that it was the poet Southey who was close to us, as he as well as our

little family and a goodly congregation were returning from Crosthwaite

Church in the afternoon. For "oncers" were unknown in those times,

neither by poets and historians like Southey, nor by travellers such as

we were. We had attended morning service. A stranger officiated. His

name was _Bush_, and this is important. A family "riddle" impressed the

name upon me. "Why were we all like Moses to-day?" "We had heard the

word out of a Bush," was the reply. But at the afternoon service I was

deeply impressed. The Rev. M. Bush having read the lessons, came out of

the prayer-desk, and to my amazement and great interest catechised the

children and others.

I thought to myself that the practice was excellent, and felt that if

ever I became a clergyman (of which honour there was very small

probability), I would obey the Prayer Book and catechise. Since then I

have catechised ten, twenty, fifty young people, and not infrequently

five hundred to one thousand, and rarely two to three thousand on a

Sunday afternoon, often, however, much exhausted (having to preach in

the evening) and dreadfully cast down at my own failure in not

catechising better.

Decades rolled on. A lovely effigy of Southey occupied his place in

Crosthwaite Church, and I found myself again amidst the enchanting views

of and about Derwentwater. The morning was wet, but I resolved to go as

soon as it cleared up in order to find "th' ould clerk," and inquire of

him touching the catechising of perhaps forty years ago. I was told that

he had resigned, that he lived still at no very great distance. I think

he was succeeded by his son as clerk. After some trouble I found my aged

friend, and told him that very many years ago I was at the church when

Southey, the poet, was there, and I wanted to know if the catechising

was continued. "There never has been any catechising here," said the

worthy old sacristan. "Forgive me, I heard it myself." "I tell thee

there never was no catechising here. I lived here all these years, and

was clerk for nearly all the time." "I cannot help that," I said; "I am

sure there was catechising in your church on a Sunday when I, a boy, was

here." The old Churchman became testy, and my pertinacity made him

irate, as he thundered out that "never had there been catechising in

that church in all his day." I rose to leave him, telling him that I was

very disappointed, but that I was _confident_ that I did not invent this

story, and, I added, the name of the parson was Bush. "_Bush, Bush,

Bush!_ Well, there was a clergyman of that name come here four Sundays,

many a year ago, when the vicar was from home; and now I come to think

of it, he did catechise on the Sunday afternoon. But he is the only man

that ever did so here. There's been no catechising in this church,

except then." We parted good friends after what I felt to be a most

singular interview, far more interesting, I fear, to me than to any who

may read this unadorned tale, and especially the many folks who probably

but for this I should never have catechised.

But I hope the old clerk of Crosthwaite's declaration will not long be

true of any church of the Anglican Communion, "There's been no

catechising here." My success as a preacher, or catechist, or parish

priest has not been great, but this does not greatly surprise me, while

sorrowing that so it has been. But I think it likely that the incident

at Crosthwaite Church was a chief cause of my trying to be a catechist,

and I conclude by saying to any one in holy orders, or preparing to

receive them. Make catechising an important effort in your ministry.

It was a small parish. The vicar was a learned man, and an authority as

an antiquary, and a man of high character. On a certain Sunday morning

I was detailed to perform all the "duties" of Morning Prayer. Doubtless

I was too energetic in my efforts at preaching, for my "action" proved,

almost to an alarming extent, that the huge pulpit cushion had not been

"dusted" for a lengthy period. But it was at the very commencement of

divine service that the clerk demonstrated his originality in the proper

discharge of his duties. "I stands up in yonder corner to ring the

bells, and as soon as you be ready you gives me a kind of nod like, and

then I leaves off ringing and comes to my place as clerk." Nothing could

work better, and the clerk of B----- d and I parted at the close of

divine service on very amicable terms.

Mr. F.S. Gill, aged 86, has many recollections of old clerks and their

ways. In a parish in Nottinghamshire there was an old clerk who was

nearly blind. There were two services on Sunday in summer, and only

morning service in winter. The clerk knew the morning Psalms quite well

by heart, but not so the evening Psalms. On one occasion when his verse

should have been read, he was unable to recollect it. After a pause the

clergyman began to read it, when the clerk, who occupied the box below

that of the vicar, looked up, saying, "Nay, nay, master, I've got

it now."

Another time, when an absent-minded curate omitted the ante-Communion

service and appeared in his black gown in the pulpit, the clerk was

indignant, and went up to remonstrate. Knocking at the pulpit door and

no notice being taken of him, he proceeded to pull the black gown, and

made the curate come down, change his robes, and complete the service in

the orthodox fashion.

In another Notts church, during service, there was an encounter between

two clerks. The regular clerk having been taken ill was unequal to his

duties for some weeks, and appointed a man to carry them out for him. On

the restoration to health of the real clerk he came into church to

resume his duties, but found the man he had appointed occupying the

box--the so-called desk. Whereupon they had a scuffle in the aisle.

* * * * *

The Rev. William Selwyn recollects the following incidents in the parish

of F-----, near Cambridge:

Here up to the end of the sixties and well into the seventies a most

quaint service was in fashion. The morning service began with a metrical

Psalm--Tate and Brady--led by the clerk (of these more hereafter). This

being ended, the vicar commenced the service always with the sentence "O

Lord, correct me"--never any other. Then all things went on in the

regular course till the end of the Litany, when the clerk would be heard

stamping down the church and ascending the gallery in order to be ready

for the second metrical Psalm. That ended, the vicar would commence with

the ante-Communion service from the _reading-desk_. This went on in due

course till the end of the Nicene Creed, when without sermon, prayers,

or blessing, the morning service came to an abrupt termination. The

afternoon service was identical, save that it ended with a sermon and

the blessing.

But the chief peculiarity was the clerk and the singing. The metrical

Psalm chosen was invariably one for the day of the month whatever it

might be. The clerk would give it out, "Let's sing to the praise and

glory of God," and then would read the first two lines. The usual

village band--fiddle, trombone, etc. etc.--would accompany him, which

thing done, the next two lines would follow, and so on. Usually the

number of verses was four, but sometimes the clerk would go on to six,

or even seven. Once, I remember, this led to a somewhat ludicrous

result. It was the seventh day of the month, consequently the

thirty-fifth was the metrical Psalm to be sung. I think my late revered

relative, Canon Selwyn, learnt then with astonishment, as I did myself,

of the existence of the following lines within the folds of the

Prayer Book:

"And when through dark and slippery ways

They strive His rage to shun,

His vengeful ministers of wrath

Shall goad them as they run."

It is hard to think that such a service could have been possible within

seven miles of a University town, and I need hardly say it was very

trying to the younger ones.

In the afternoon the band migrated to the dissenting chapel. On one

occasion the band failed to appear, and the clerk was left alone.

However, he made the best of it, with scant support from the

congregation, so turning to them at the end, said in a loud voice,

"Thank you for your help!"

THE PARISH OF BROMFIELD, SALOP.

From these ludicrous scenes it is refreshing to turn to a service which,

though primitive, was conducted with the utmost reverence and decency.

When I was instituted in 1866 all the singing was conducted, and most

reverently conducted, under the auspices of the clerk. He was a handsome

man, with a flowing beard, magnificent bass voice, and a wooden leg.

With two or three sons, daughters, and others in the village he

carried on the choir, and though there were only hymns, nothing could be

better. Of its kind I have seldom heard anything better. They had to

yield to the inexorable march of time, but I parted from them with

regret. Though we now have a surpliced choir of men and boys, with a

trained organist and choirmaster, I always look back to my good old

friend with his daughters and their companions, who were the leaders of

the singing in the early days of my incumbency.

[Illustration: THE PARISH CLERK OF QUEDGELEY]

The Rev. Canon Hemmans tell his reminiscences of Thomas Evison, parish

clerk of Wragby, Lincolnshire, who died in 1865, aged eighty-two years.

He speaks of him as "a dear old friend, for whom I had a profound

regard, and to whom I was grateful for much help during my noviciate at

my first and only curacy."

Thomas Evison was a shoemaker, and in his early years a great pot-house

orator. Settled on his well-known corner seat in the "Red Lion," he

would be seen each evening smoking his pipe and laying down the law in

the character of the village oracle. He must have had some determination

and force of character, as one evening he laid down his pipe on the hob

and said, "I'll smoke no more." He also retired from his corner seat at

the inn, but he was true to his political opinions, and remained an

ardent Radical to the last. This action showed some courage, as almost

all the parish belonged to the squire, who was a strong Tory of the old

school. Canon Hemmans was curate of Wragby with the Rev. G.B. Yard from

1851 to 1860, succeeding the present Dean of St. Paul's. Mr. Yard was a

High Churchman, a personal friend of Manning, the Wilberforces, R.

Sibthorpe, and Keble, and when expounding then unaccustomed and

forgotten truths, he found the clerk a most intelligent and attentive

hearer. Evison used to attend the daily services, except the Wednesday

and Friday Litany, which service was too short for him. During the

vicar's absence Canon Hemmans, who was then a deacon, found the clerk a

most reliable adviser and instructor in Lincolnshire customs and words

and ways of thought. When he was baptizing a child privately, the name

Thirza was given to the child, which he did not recognise as a Bible

name. He consulted Evison, who said, "Oh, yes, it is so; it's the name

of Abel's wife." On the next day Evison bought a book, Gesner's _Death

of Abel_, a translation of some Swedish or German work, in which the

tragedy of the early chapters of Genesis is woven into a story with

pious reflections. This is not an uncommon book, and the clerk said

these people believed it was as true as the Bible, because it claimed to

be about Bible characters.

Evison was a diligent reader of newspapers, which were much fewer in his

day, and studied diligently the sermons reported in the local Press. He

was much puzzled by the reference to "the leg end" of the story of the

raising of Lazarus in a sermon preached by the Bishop of London,

afterwards Archbishop Tait. A reference to Bailey's Dictionary and the

finding of the word _legend_ made matters clear. Of course he miscalled

words. During the Russian War he told Mr. Hemmans that we were not

fighting for "territororial possessions," and he always read "Moabites

and Hungarians" in his rendering of the sixth verse of the 83rd Psalm.

After the resignation of Mr. Yard in 1859 a Low Churchman was

appointed, who restored the use of the black gown. Mr. Hemmans had to

preach in the evening of the first Sunday, and was undecided as to

whether he ought to continue to use the surplice. He consulted Evison,

whose brave advice was, "Stick to your colours."

The clerk stuck stoutly to his Radical principles, and one day went to

Lincoln to take part in a contested election. On the following Sunday

the vicar spoke of "the filthy stream of politics." The old man was

rather moved by this, and said afterwards, "Well, I am not too old to

learn." Though staunch to his own principles, he was evidently

considerate towards the opinions of others. He used to keep a pony and

gig, and his foreman, one Solomon Bingham, was a local preacher. When

there came a rough Sunday morning the kind old clerk would say: "Well,

Solomon, where are you going to seminate your schism to-day? You may

have my trap." Canon Hemmans retains a very affectionate regard for the

memory of the old clerk.

* * * * *

Mrs. Ellen M. Burrows sends me a charming description of an

old-fashioned service, and some clerkly manners which are worth

recording.

From twenty-five to thirty years ago the small Bedfordshire village of

Tingrith had quaint customs and ceremonies which to-day exist only in

the memory of the few.

The lady of the manor was perhaps best described by a neighbouring

squire as a "potentate in petticoats."

Being sole owner of the village, she found employment for all the men,

enforced cleanliness on all the women, greatly encouraged the industry

of lace-making and hat-sewing, paid for the schooling of the children,

and looked after the morals of everybody generally.

Legend has it that one ancient schoolmaster whom this good lady

appointed was not overgood at spelling, and would allow a pupil to

laboriously spell out a word and wait for him to explain. If the master

could not do this he would pretend to be preoccupied, and advise the

pupil to "say 'wheelbarrow' and go on."

On a Sunday each and every cottager was expected at church. The women

sat on one side of the centre aisle and the men on the other, the former

attired in clean cotton gowns and the latter in their Sunday smocks.

The three bells were clanged inharmoniously until a boy who was

stationed at a point of vantage told the ringer "she's a-comin'." Then

one bell only was rung to announce the near arrival of the lady of

the manor.

The rector would take his place at the desk, and the occupants of the

centre aisle would rise respectfully to their feet in anticipation.

A white-haired butler and a younger footman--with many brass buttons on

their coat-tails--would fling wide the double doors and stand one on

either side until the old lady swept in; then one door was closed and

the other only left open for less-important worshippers to enter. As she

passed between the men and women to the big pew joining the chancel

screen, they all touched their forelocks or dropped curtsies before

resuming their seats. Before this aristocratic personage began her

devotions she would face round and with the aid of a large monocle,

which hung round her neck on a broad black ribbon, would make a silent

call over, and for the tardy, or non-arrivals, there was a lecture in

store. The servants of her household had the whole of one side aisle

allotted to their use. The farmers had the other. There were two

"strangers' pews," two "christening pews," and the rest were for the

children. When a hymn was given out the schoolmaster would vigorously

apply a tuning-fork to his knee, and having thus got the key would start

the tune, which was taken up lustily by the children round him. This was

all the singing they had in the service. The clerk said all the amens

except when he was asleep. The rector was never known to preach more

than ten minutes at a time, and this was always so simple an exposition

of the Scripture that the most illiterate could understand.

But no pen can pay tribute enough to the sweet earnestness of those

little sermons, or, having heard them, ever go away unimpressed.

At the end of the service no one of the congregation moved until the

lady of the manor sailed out of the great square pew. Then the men and

women rose as before and bowed and bobbed as she passed down the aisle.

The two menservants again flung wide the double doors and stood stiffly

on either side as she passed out; then sedately walked home behind her

at a respectful distance.

On each Good Friday the male community of the villagers were given a

holiday from their work, and a shilling was the reward for every man who

made his appearance at the eleven o'clock service; needless to say, it

was well attended.

* * * * *

Another church (Newport Pagnell, Bucks) in an adjoining county--probably

some years previous to this date--was lighted by tallow candles stuck in

tin sconces on the walls, and twice during the service the clerk went

round with a pair of long-handled snuffers to "smitch," as he called

it, the wicks of these evil-smelling lights.

For his own better accommodation he had a candle all to himself stuck in

a bottle, which he lighted when about to sing a hymn, and with candle in

one hand and book in the other, and both held at arm's length, he would

bellow most lustily and with reason, for he was supposed to lead the

singing. This finished he would blow out his candle with most audible

vigour, and every one in his neighbourhood would have their

handkerchiefs ready to drop their noses into.

This same clerk also took up his stand by the chancel steps with a black

rod in his hand, and with tremendous importance marched in front of the

rector down the aisle to the vestry under the belfry, and waited outside

while the clergyman changed his surplice for a black cassock, then

escorted him again to the pulpit stairs.

* * * * *

The Rev. E.H.L. Reeve, rector of Stondon Massey, Essex, contributes the

following excellent stories of old-time services.

The Rev. Thomas Wallace was rector of Listen, in Essex, from 1783, the

date of his father's death, onward. The following story is well

authenticated in the annals of the family, and must belong to the latter

part of the eighteenth century or the commencement of the

nineteenth century.

It was, of course, a well-established custom in those old times for the

church clerk to give out the number of the hymn to be sung, which he did

with much unction and long preamble. The moments thus employed would be

turned to account in the afternoon by the officiating clergyman, who

would take the opportunity of retiring to the vestry to exchange his

surplice for his academic gown wherein to preach.

On one occasion Mr. Wallace left his sermon, through inadvertence, at

home; and, finding himself in the vestry, considered, perhaps, that the

chance of escape was too good to be lost. At any rate, he let himself

out into the churchyard, and returned no more! He may possibly have been

unable to find a discourse, but these are details with which we are not

concerned. The clerk and congregation with becoming loyalty lengthened

out the already dreary hymn by sundry additions and doxologies to give

their pastor time to don his robes, and it was long ere they perceived

the true cause of his delay. They were somewhat nettled, as one may

suppose, at being thus befooled, and here lies the gist of our story.

Next Sunday the clerk did not give out the second hymn at the usual

time, but waited in solemn silence till Mr. Wallace had returned in his

black gown from the vestry and ascended the pulpit stairs. Then, and not

till then, he closed the pulpit door with a slam; and, _keeping his back

against it_, called out significantly, and with a tone of exultation in

his voice, "We've got him, my boys; _now_ let us sing to the praise and

glory of God," etc.

William Wren held the office of church clerk at Stondon Massey in Essex

for thirty-six years, from 1853 to 1889. He was a rough, uneducated man,

but with a certain amount of native talent which raised him above the

level of the majority of his class. I can see him now in his place

Sunday after Sunday, rigged out in a suit of my father's cast-off

clerical garments--a kind of "set-off" to him at the lower end of the

church. In his earlier days Wren had played a flute in the village

instrumental choir, and to the last he might be heard whiling away

spare moments on a Sunday in the church (for he brought his dinner early

in the morning and bivouacked there all day!) recalling to himself the

departed glories of ancient time. He turned the handle of the barrel

organ in the west gallery from the time of its purchase in 1850 to that

of its disappearance in 1873, but I do not think that he ever

appreciated this rude substitution of mechanical art for cornet,

dulcimer, and pipe.

He led the hymns and read the Psalms, and repeated the responses with

much fervour; perpetuating (long after it had ceased to be correct) the

idea that he alone could be relied upon. Should the preacher

inadvertently close his discourse with the sacred name either as part of

a text or otherwise, a fervent "Amun" was certain to resound through the

building, either because long custom had led him to regard the appendage

as indispensable to it, or because like an old soldier suddenly roused

to "attention," he awoke from a stolen slumber to jerk himself into the

mental attitude most familiar to him. This last supposition, however, is

a libel upon his fair character. I cannot believe that Wren ever slept

on duty. He kept near to him a long hazel stick, wherewith to overawe

any of the younger members of the congregation who were inclined either

to speak or titter. On Wednesdays and Fridays in Lent, when the school

attended morning service, and, in the absence of older people, occupied

the principal seats instead of their Sunday places in the gallery,

Wren's rod was frequently called into active play, and I have heard the

stick resound on the luckless head of many an offending culprit.

Let me give one closing story of him on one of those weekday mornings.

It was St. John the Evangelist's Day, and a few of us met at church for

matins. It was thought well to introduce a hymn for the festival (our

hymn book in those days was Mercer's Church Psalter and Hymn Book) and

Wren was to take charge, as usual, of the barrel-organ. My father gave

out hymn 292 at the appointed place, but only silence followed. Again

"292," and then came a voice from the west gallery, "The 283rd!" My

father did not take the hint, and again, rather unfortunately, hazarded

"Hymn 292." This was too much for our organist, who called in still

louder tones, "'Tis the 283rd I tell you!" Fortunately, we were a small

company, but matters would have been the same, I dare say, on a Sunday.

In the vestry subsequently Wren explained to my father, "You know there

are _two Johns_; the 292nd hymn belongs to John the _Baptist's_ Day;

_this_ is John the _Evangelist's_."

The confusion once over my father was much amused with the incident, and

frequently entertained friends with it afterwards, when I am bound to

say it did not lose its richness of detail. "Don't I keep a-telling on

you?" was the fully developed question, as I last remember hearing the

story told. The above, however, I can vouch for as strictly correct,

being one of the select party privileged to witness the occurrence.

* * * * *

Mr. Frederick W. Hackwood, the historian of Wednesbury, has kindly sent

the following description of the famous clerks of that place:

The office of parish clerk in Wednesbury has been held by at least two

remarkable characters. "Old George Court," as he was called--and by some

who are still alive--held the post in succession to his grandfather for

a great number of years. His grandfather was George Watkins, in his time

one of the principal tradesmen in the town. His hospitable house was the

place of entertainment for a long succession of curates-in-charge and

other officiating ministers for all the long years that the vicar (Rev.

A. Bunn Haden) was a non-resident pluralist. But the position created by

this state of things was remarkable. Watkins and the small coterie who

acted with him became the absolute and dominant authority in all

parochial matters. One curate complained of him and his nominee wardens

(in 1806) that "these men had been so long in office, and had become so

cruel and oppressive," that some of the parishioners resolved at last to

dismiss them. The little oligarchy, however, was too strong to be ousted

at any vestry that ever was called. As to the elected officials, the

same curate records in a pamphlet which he published in his indignation,

that "on Christmas Day, during divine service, the churchwardens entered

the workhouse with constables and bailiffs, and a multitude of men

equally pious with themselves, and turned the governor and his wife into

the snow-covered streets." Another measure of iniquity laid to their

charge was their "cruelty to Mr. Foster," the master of the charity

school held in the old Market Cross, "a man of amiable disposition, and

a teacher of considerable merit." These aggressive wardens grazed the

churchyard for profit, looked coldly upon a proposal to put up Tables of

Benefactions in the church, and altogether acted in a manner so

high-handed as to call forth this historic protest. Although the fabric

of the church was in so ruinous a condition that the rain streamed

through the roof upon the head of our clerical pamphleteer as he was

preaching, all these complaints were to no purpose. When the absentee

vicar was appealed to he declared his helplessness, and one sentence in

his reply is significant; it was thus: "It is as much as my life is

worth to come among them!" Allowance must be made for party rancour. It

is probable that Watkins was but the official figure-head of this

dominant party, and he is said to have been a man of real piety; and

after holding the office of parish clerk for sixty years, he at last

died in the vestry of the church he loved so much.

As a certified clerk George Court held the office as long as his

grandfather before him. He was a man of the bluff and hearty sort,

thoroughly typical of old Wednesbury, of Dutch build, yet commanding

presence, in language more forcible than polite, and not restrained in

the use of his strong language even by the presence of an austere and

iron-willed vicar. The tales told of him are numerous enough, but are

scarcely of the kind that look well in cold print. Although fond of the

good things of this world himself, he could occasionally be very severe

on the high feeding and deep drinking proclivities of "You--singers and

ringers"! He was never known to fail in scolding any funeral procession

that had kept him waiting at the church gates too long, and that in

language as loud as it was vigorous. He, like his predecessor, was the

autocrat of the parish.

The last of the long line of parish clerks who occupied the bottom desk

of the fine old Jacobean three-decker was Thomas Parkes. He died in

1884. The peculiar resonant nasal twang with which he sang out the

"Amens" gave rise to a sharp newspaper correspondence in the _Wednesbury

Observer_ of 1857. Another controversy provoked by him was at the

opening of the cemetery in 1868, when as vestry clerk he claimed a fee

of 9 d. on every interment. The resistance of the Nonconformists led to

an amicable compromise.

* * * * *

Mr. Wise, of Weekley, the author of several works on Kettering and the

neighbourhood, tells me of an extraordinary incident which happened in a

Sussex parish church when he was a boy about seventy years ago. The

clerk was a decayed farmer who had a fine voice, but who was noted for

his intemperate habits. He went up as usual to the singers' gallery just

before the sermon and gave out the metrical Psalm. The Psalm was sung,

the sermon commenced, when suddenly from the gallery rose the words of a

popular song, given by a splendid tenor voice:

"Oh, give my back my Arab steed,

My Prince defends his right,

And I will ..."

"Some one, please, remove that drunken man from the gallery," the

clergyman quietly said. It was afterwards found that some mischievous

persons had promised the clerk a gallon of ale if he would sing a song

during the sermon.

* * * * *

Miss Elton, of Bath, tells me of the clerk of Bierton, near Aylesbury,

of which her father had sole charge for a time at the end of the

forties. His predecessor had been a Mr. Stephens. The place had been

neglected, and church matters were at a low ebb. Mr. Elton instituted a

service on Saints' Days, which was quite an innovation at that time, and

the first of these was held on St. Stephen's Day. The old clerk came

into the vestry after the service and said, "I be sorry, sir, to hear

the unkid (= awful) tale of poor Mussar (Mister) Stephens. He be come

to a sad end surely." He had evidently confounded the first martyr, St.

Stephen, with the late curate of the parish, having apparently never

heard of the former.

A new vicar had been appointed to a parish about eight miles from

Oxford, who had been for many years a Fellow of his college, and in

consequence knew little of village folk or parochial matters. Dr. A. was

much disturbed to find that so few of the villagers attended church, and

consulted the clerk on the subject, who suggested that it might

encourage the people to attend if Dr. A. was to offer to give sixpence a

Sunday to all who came to church. The plan was tried and found to

succeed; the congregations improved rapidly, and the church was well

filled, to Dr. A.'s satisfaction. But after a while the numbers fell

off, and to Dr. A.'s chagrin people left off attending church. He again

called the clerk into his counsels, and asked what could be the reason

of the falling off of the congregation, as he had always given sixpence

every Sunday, as he promised, to all who came to the service. "Well,

sir," said the clerk, "it is like this: they tells me as how they finds

they _can't do it for the money_."

* * * * *

The following reminiscences are supplied by the Rev. W. Frederick Green,

and are worthy of record:

I well remember the parish clerk of Woburn, in Bedfordshire, more than

sixty years ago. His name was Joe Brewer--a bald-headed, short, stumpy

man, who wore black knee-breeches, grey stockings, and shoes. He was

also the town crier. He always gave out the hymns from the front of the

west gallery. "Let us sing to the praise and glory of God, hymn--" Once

I heard him call out instead, "O yes! O yes! O yes! This is to give

notice," and then, recollecting he was in church, with a loud "O

crikey!" he began "Let us sing," etc.

Collections in church were made by him in a china soup plate from each

pew. Ours was a large square family pew. One Sunday my brother put into

the plate a new coin (I think a florin), which Brewer had never seen

before, and which he thought was a token or medal, and thinking my

brother was playing a trick upon him, said in a loud voice, "Now, Master

Charles, none of them larks here."

I have also seen him at afternoon service (there was no evening service

in those days), when it unexpectedly came on too dark for the clergyman

to see his MS. in the pulpit, go to the altar--an ordinary table with

drawers--throw up the cloth, open a drawer, take out two candles and a

box of matches, go up the pulpit stairs, fix them in the candlesticks,

and light them.

During the winter months part of his duty was to tend the fire during

service in the Duke of Bedford's large curtained, carpeted pew in

the chancel.

When I was a boy I was staying in Northamptonshire, and went one Sunday

morning into a village church for service (I think it was Fotheringhay).

There was a three-decker, and the clerk from his desk led the singing of

the congregation, which he faced. There was no musical instrument of any

kind. The hymn, which of course was from Tate and Brady, was the

metrical version of Psalm xlii. The clerk gave out the Psalm, then read

the first line to the congregation, then sang it solo, and then the

congregation sang it altogether; and so on line after line for the whole

eleven verses.

More attention must have been paid in those days to the requirement of

the ninety-first Canon, that the clerk should be known, if may be, "for

his competent skill in singing."

In 1873 I was curate-in-charge of an out-of-the-way Norfolk village. On

my first Sunday I had an early celebration at 8 a.m. I arrived in church

about 7.45, and to my amazement saw five old men sitting round the stove

in the nave with their hats on, smoking their pipes. I expostulated with

them quite gently, but they left the church before service and never

came again. I discovered afterwards that they had been regular

communicants, and that my predecessor always distributed the offertory

to the poor present immediately after the service. When these men in the

course of my remonstrance found that I was not going to continue the

custom, they no longer cared to be communicants.

In 1870, in Norfolk, I went round with the rural dean visiting the

churches. At one church the only person to receive the rural dean was

the parish clerk, who was ready with the funeral pall to put over the

rural dean's horse whilst waiting outside the church.

It was this same church which, in preparation for the rural dean's

visit, had been recently and completely whitewashed throughout. Not only

the walls and pillars, but also the pews, the school forms, the pulpit,

and also the altar itself, a very small four-legged deal table without

any covering. I suppose this was done by the churchwardens to conceal

the dilapidated condition of everything; but they had omitted to remove

the grass which was growing in the crevices of the floor paving.

Mr. Moxon (deceased), formerly rector of Hethersett, in Norfolk, told me

that he had once preached for a friend in a Norfolk village church with

the woman clerk holding an umbrella over his head in the pulpit

throughout the sermon, because of the "dreep."

Miss E. Lloyd, of Woodburn, Crowborough, writes:

About the year 1833 a gentleman bought an estate in North Yorkshire,

seven miles from any town, and built a house there. The parish was

small, having a population of about a hundred souls, the church old and

tumbledown, reeking with damp; the rain came through the roof; the seats

were worm-eaten, and centipedes, with other like vermin, roamed about

them near the wall. The vicar was non-resident, and an elderly

curate-in-charge ministered to this parish and another in the

neighbourhood. The customs of the church were much the same as those

described by Canon Atkinson in his _Forty Years in a Moorland Parish_ as

existing on his arrival at Danby. There was no vestry. The surplice

(washed twice a year) was hung over the altar rails, within which the

curate robed, his hat or any parcel he happened to have in his hand

being put down for the time on the Holy Table. The men sat for the most

part together, the farmers and young men in the singing-loft, the

labourers below, and the women in front. The wife of the chief yeoman

farmer--an excellent and superior woman--still kept up the habit of

"making a reverence" to the altar before she entered her pew. The

surplice, which hung in the church all through the week, was apt to get

very damp. On one occasion, when a strange clergyman staying at the Hall

took the service, he declined to wear it, as it was so wet.

"He wadn't pit it on," said the old clerk Christopher (commonly called

"Kitty") Hill. "I reckon he was afeard o' t' smittle" (infection).

The same clergyman, when he went up to the altar for the Communion

Service, knelt down, as his habit was, at the north end for private

prayer whilst the congregation were singing a metrical Psalm (Old or New

Version). On looking up he saw that Kitty Hill had followed him within

the rails and was kneeling at the opposite end of the Holy Table staring

at him with round eyes full of amazement at this unusual act of

devotion. Both the curate and the clerk spoke the broadest Yorkshire.

Psalm xxxii. 4 was thus rendered by Kitty: "Ma-maasture is like t' doong

i' summer." He was an old man and quite bald, and used to sit in his

desk with a blue-spotted pocket-handkerchief spread over his head,

occasionally drawing down a corner of it for use, and then pulling it

straight again. If the squire happened to come late to church--a thing

which did not often happen--the curate would pause in his reading and

apologise: "Good morning, Mr. ----. I am sorry, sir, that I began the

service. I thought you were not coming this morning." One sentence of

the sermon preached on the death of King William IV long remained in the

memory of some of his young hearers: "Behold the King in all his pomp

and glory, soodenly toombled from his high elevation, and mingled wi'

the doost!"

In 1845 a new church was built on the old site, a new curate came, Kitty

Hill died, and was succeeded in his office by his widow, who did all

that she could do of the clerk's work, and showed remarkable taste in

decorating the church at Christmas. No clerk was needed for the

responses, as the congregation joined heartily in the service, and there

was a much better attendance than there is now. She died in the

early fifties.

Amongst other varied readings of the Psalms that of an old parish clerk

at Hartlepool may be given. He had been a sailor, and used to render

Psalm civ. 26 as "There go the ships, and there is that lieutenant whom

Thou hast made to take his pastime therein."

The late Dr. Gatty, in his record of _A Life at One Living_, mentions

that at Ecclesfield, as in many other places, the office of parish clerk

was hereditary. The last holder of the office, who used to sit in his

desk clad in a black bombazine gown, was a publican by trade, a decent,

honest man, who during the fifty-one years he was clerk was only twice

absent from service. He died in 1868, and the offices of clerk and

sexton were then united and held by one person.

The register books of Weybridge, Surrey, were kept for a great part of

the eighteenth century by the parish clerks, the son succeeding his

father in office for three or four generations.

Now probably the clerks are no more clerks but vergers; and as a

Yorkshireman remarked, "_Verging_ is a very honourable profession."

The portrait of John Gray, sometime clerk in Eton College Chapel, taken

in his gown as he stood in his desk, has been engraved, and is well

known to old Etonians.

* * * * *

Few people possess the gift of humour in the same degree as the late

Bishop Walsham How, and his stories of the race of parish clerks and

vergers must not be omitted, and are here published by permission of his

son, Mr. F.D. How, editor of _Lighter Moments_.

When I was a deacon, and naturally shy, I was visiting my aunts at

Workington, where my grandfather had been rector, and was asked to

preach on Sunday evening in St. John's, a wretched modern church--a

plain oblong with galleries, and a pulpit like a very tall wineglass,

with a very narrow little straight staircase leading up to it, in the

middle of the east part of the church. When the hymn before the sermon

was given out I went as usual to the vestry to put on the black gown.

Not knowing that the clergyman generally stayed there till the end of

the hymn, I emerged as soon as I had vested myself and walked to the

pulpit and ascended the stairs. When nearly at the summit, to my horror

I discovered a very fat beadle in the pulpit lighting the candles. We

could not possibly pass on the stairs, and the eyes of the whole

congregation were upon me. It would be ignominious to retreat. So after

a few minutes' reflection I saw my way out of the difficulty, which I

overcame by a very simple mechanical contrivance. I entered the pulpit,

which exactly fitted the beadle and myself, and then face to face we

executed a rotary movement to the extent of a semicircle, when the

beadle finding himself next the door of the pulpit was enabled to

descend, and I remained master of the situation.

* * * * *

At Uffington, near Shrewsbury, during the incumbency of the Rev. J.

Hopkins, the choir and organist, having been dissatisfied with some

arrangement, determined not to take part in the service. So when the

clerk, according to the usual custom of those days, gave out the hymn,

there was a dead silence. This lasted a little while, and then the

clerk, unable to bear it, rose up and appealed to the congregation,

saying most imploringly, "Them as _can_ sing _do_ ye sing: it's misery

to be a this'n" (Shropshire for "in this way").

* * * * *

At Wolstanton, in the Potteries, there was a somewhat fussy verger

called Oakes. On one occasion, just at the time of the year when it was

doubtful whether lights would be wanted or no, and when they had not yet

been lighted for evening service, a stranger, who was a very smart young

clergyman, was reading the lessons and had some difficulty in seeing. He

had on a pair of delicate lavender kid gloves. The verger, perceiving

his difficulty, went to the vestry, got two candles, lighted them, and

walked to the lectern, before which he stood solemnly holding the

candles (without candlesticks) in his hands. This was sufficiently

trying to the congregation, but suddenly some one rattled the latch of

the west door, when Oakes, feeling that it was absolutely necessary to

go and see what was the matter, thrust the two candles into the poor

young clergyman's delicately gloved hands, and left him!

At the church of Stratfieldsaye, where the Duke of Wellington was a

regular attendant, a stranger was preaching, and the verger when he

ended came up the stairs, opened the pulpit door a little way, slammed

it to, and then opened it wide for the preacher to go out. He asked in

the vestry why he had shut the door again while opening it, and the

verger said, "We always do that, sir, to wake the duke."

A former young curate of Stoke being very anxious to do things

rubrically, insisted on the ring being put on the "fourth finger" at a

wedding he took. The woman resisted and said, "I would sooner die than

be married on my little finger." The curate said, "But the rubric says

so," whereupon the _deus ex machinâ_ appeared in the shape of the parish

clerk, who stepped forward and said, "In these cases, sir, the thoomb

counts as a digit."

A gentleman going to see a ritualistic church in London was walking

into the chancel when an official stepped forward and said, "You mustn't

go in there." "Why not?" said the gentleman. "I'm put here to stop you,"

said the man. "Oh! I see," said the gentleman; "you're what they call

the _rude_ screen, aren't you?"

* * * * *

A clergyman in the diocese of Wakefield told me that when first he came

to the parish he found things in a very neglected state, and among other

changes he introduced an early celebration of the Holy Communion. An old

clerk collected the offertory, and when he brought it up to the

clergyman he said, "There's eight on 'em, but two 'asn't paid."

* * * * *

A verger was showing a lady over a church when she asked him if the

vicar was a married man. "No, ma'am," he answered, "he's a chalybeate."

* * * * *

A verger showing a large church to a stranger, pointed out another man

and said, "That is the other verger." The gentleman said, "I did not

know there were two of you," and the verger replied, "Oh, yes, sir, he

werges up one side of the church and I werges up the other."

* * * * *

On my first visit to Almondbury to preach, the verger came to me in the

vestry and said, "A've put a platform in t' pulpit for ye; you'll excuse

me, but a little man looks as if he was in a toob." (N.B. To prevent

undue inferences I am five feet nine inches in height.)

* * * * *

One of the speakers at the meeting of the Catholic Truth Society at

Bristol (Sept., 1895) told a story of a pious Catholic visiting

Westminster Abbey, and kneeling in a quiet corner for private devotion,

when he was summoned in stentorian tones to come and view the royal

tombs and chapels. "But I have seen them," said the stranger, "and I

only wish to say my prayers." "Prayers is over," said the verger.

"Still, I suppose," said the stranger, "there can be no objection to my

saying my prayers quietly here?" "No objection, sir!" said the irate

verger. "Why, it would be an insult to the Dean and Chapter."

* * * * *

The Rev. M.E. Jenkins writes his remembrances of several old clerks.

There was dear old Robert Livesay, of Blackburn parish church, whom

every one knew, his large rubicund face beaming with good nature and

humour--a very kindly old soul. In 1870 I was appointed to an old-world

Dale's parish, which had one of the real old Yorkshire clerks, Frank

Hutchinson. He was lame and blind in one eye, and well do I recall his

sonorous and tremulous response, his love for the Psalms (Tate and

Brady's); he "reckoned nought o' _Hymns Ancient and Modern_." I used

generally to find him with a long pipe in the vestry on my return from

afternoon service. He was a great authority on the ancient history of

the parish, and was formerly schoolmaster. He had brought up most

respectably a large family of sons and daughters on the smallest means,

many of whom still survive. I had a great respect for the old man, and

so he had for me. He was very great at leading that peculiarly

dirge-like wail at the huge Yorkshire funerals. I never could quite make

out any words, but as a singularly effective and musical cadence in a

minor key, it was no doubt a survival, as I once heard Canon Atkinson

say, the famous vicar of Danby, my immediate neighbour on the moors. At

last I attended Frank Hutchinson daily in his prolonged decay, and

received his solemn blessing and commendation on my work; and he

received at my hand a few hours before his death his last communion,

surrounded by all his children and grandchildren, in his small bedroom,

by the light of a single candle. I can still see his thin face uplifted.

It is thirty-five years ago, and I can still hear the striking of his

lucifer match in the midst of the afternoon service, and see him holding

up close to his own eye the candle and the book, and can hear his

tremulous "Amen," quite independent of the choral one sung by a small

choir in the chancel. He was great in epitaphs. A favourite one, which

he would recite _ore rotunda_, was:

"Let this record, what few vain marbles can,

Here lies an honest man."

Another, which, by the way, is in Egton churchyard, ran as follows:

"Life is but a winter's day;

Some breakfast and away,

Others to dinner stop and are full fed,

The oldest man but sups and goes to bed."

He was a genuine old Dalesman of a type passed away. His spirits really

never survived the abolition of the stringed instruments in the western

gallery with its galaxy of village musicians. "I hugged bass fiddle for

many a year," he once told me. Peace be to his memory.

* * * * *

Canon Atkinson tells of his good and harmless but "feckless" parish

clerk and schoolmaster at Danby, whom, when about to take a funeral, he

discovered sitting in the sunny embrasure of the west window, with his

hat on, of course, and comfortably smoking his pipe. The clerk was a

brother of the old vicar of Danby, and they seem to have been a curious

and irreverent pair. The historian of Danby, in his _Forty Years in a

Moorland Parish_, fully describes his first visit to the clerk's school,

and the strange custom of weird singing at funerals to which Mr.

Jenkins alludes.

* * * * *

Another north-country clerk-schoolmaster was obliged to relinquish his

scholastic duties and make way for a certified teacher. One day he heard

the new master tell his pupils: "'A' is an indefinite article. 'A' is

one, and can only be applied to one thing. You cannot say a cats or a

dogs; but only a cat, a dog." The clerk at once reported the matter to

his rector. "Here's a pretty fellow you've got to keep school! He says

that you can only apply the article 'a' to nouns of the singular number;

and here have I been singing 'A--men' all my life, and your reverence

has never once corrected me."

* * * * *

Communicated by Mrs. Williamson, Lydgate Vicarage:

The old parish clerk of Radcliffe was secretary of the races committee,

and would hurry out of church to attend these meetings. Mr. Foxley, the

rector, was told of this weakness of his clerk, so one Wednesday

evening, when the rector knew there was a meeting, he got into the

pulpit (a three-decker was then in the church), and began his sermon.

Half an hour went by, then the clerk began to be restless. Another

half-hour passed; the clerk looked up from his seat under the pulpit,

but still the rector went on preaching. It was too late then for the

race-course meeting. So when the sermon was at length finished, the

clerk got up and gave out "the 'undred and nineteenth Psalm from yend

to yend. He's preached all day, and we'll sing all neet" (night).

* * * * *

At Westhoughton Church, Lancashire, there was a clerk of the old school,

one Platt, who just before the sermon would stretch his long arm and

offer his snuff-box to his old friend Betty, and to other cronies who

happened to be in his immediate neighbourhood.

* * * * *

The clerk at Stratfieldsaye, who was a character, once astonished a

strange clergyman who was taking the duty. The choir sat in the gallery,

and the numbers were few on that Sunday. "Mon I 'elp them chaps? they be

terrible few," said the clerk. The clergyman quite agreed that he should

render them his valuable assistance, and sit in the gallery. Presently a

man came in late, and was kneeling down to say his private prayer, when

the clergyman was horrified to see the clerk deliberately rise in the

gallery and throw a book at the man's head. When remonstrated with after

service the clerk replied carelessly, "Oh, it were only my way o'

telling him to sing up, as we were terrible short this marning."