onward, still their True Shepherd and Guide, with the sheep on His right
hand, and the goats on His left hand, so wonderfully foretold in the
Gospel story: "When the Son of Man shall come in His glory, and all the
holy angels with Him, then shall He sit upon the throne of His glory;
And before Him shall be gathered all nations: and He shall separate them
one from another, as a shepherd divideth his sheep from the goats: and
He shall set the sheep on His right hand, but the goats on the
left."--_S. Matt, xxv., 31, 32, 33._
Surely, the above simple illustration explains much that is difficult
and mysterious to us in the way of religious superstition. Undoubtedly,
we have here a good example of how superstitions have arisen, probably
from a good source, it may be the words of some teacher long since
passed away. The circumstance has long been forgotten, yet the lesson
remains, and being handed down by oral tradition only, every vestige of
its religious nature disappears and but the feeling remains, which, in
the minds of the ignorant populace, increases in mystery and enfolds
itself in superstitious awe, without any desire from them to discover
the origin, or source, of such a strange custom, or event.
Curious Announcements in the Church.
By the Rev. R. Wilkins Rees.
Years ago announcements in churches were of a distinctly curious
character, and the parish clerk in making the intimation seems to have
been left completely to his own indiscretion. In country districts,
where proper advertising would be quite impossible, the practical
advantages of some classes of announcements would be great, but none of
them accord with our modern sense of the fitness of things, and many can
only be accounted for on the ground of extraordinary familiarity between
clergyman, clerk, and congregation. A brief consideration of the subject
furnishes a few side-lights into the general condition of the church, as
well as into the laxity of church discipline, about fifty years and more
ago, especially away from large centres of population.
In certain parts, the custom of crying lost goods in church was
undoubtedly prevalent, and did not then appear peculiar. The rector, who
had lost his favourite dog and told the parish clerk to do his best to
ascertain its whereabouts, may have been astonished to hear him announce
the loss in church, coupled with a statement that a reward of three
pounds would be given to the person who should restore the animal to its
owner. But such surprise was hardly natural when an announcement like
the following was possible:--"Mislaid on Sunday last! The gold-rimmed
vicar's spectacles of best glass, taken from his eyes in going into the
poor box, or put down somewhere when going into the font to fetch the
water after the christening." What a shock this rare jumble produced by
a country clerk must have been to the precise and classical vicar can
only be imagined. The thought, however, of a gold-rimmed vicar
diminutive enough to enter font or poor box is somewhat staggering!
Quite as muddled, but much more ingenious, was the clerk who announced,
in recent years, an accomplished D.Sc. and LL.D. as a Doctor of Schools
and a Lord Lieutenant of Divinity!
"Lost, stolen, or strayed," shouted the clerk in church one Sunday, with
the strident voice of a town crier, and the manner of one not
unaccustomed to the task, "lost, stolen, or strayed. Four fat sheep and
one lean cow. Whoever will return the same to Mr. ----'s farm will be
suitably rewarded." It is well that the name of the parish in which it
was given, is missing from another specimen of this sort of
announcement, for it seems to indicate that honesty there could be but
the outcome of an inducement afforded by the promise of substantial
reward. "Lost," said the clerk, "on Sunday last, when the wearer was
walking home from this church, and before she reached the Town Hall, a
lady's gold brooch, set with pearls and other precious stones. The one
who has found it will consider it worth while to restore it, for the
reward of a guinea is offered."
It is not a little surprising that the clergyman in charge did not
supervise more carefully the various announcements, especially when so
many a _contretemps_ occurred. Once a parish clerk announced in his
rector's hearing:--"There'll be no service next Sunday as the rector's
going out grouse shooting." The rector had injudiciously acquainted his
clerk with the reason of his approaching absence, and this was the
result. It happened, of course, a half century since, but it illustrates
an interesting state of things as existing at that period. With it two
similar incidents may well be mentioned, the first of which occurred in
Scotland, the second in the Principality. "Next Sawbath," said a worthy
Scotch beadle, "we shall have no Sawbath, for the meenister's house is
having spring cleaning, and as the weather is very bad the meenister's
wife wants the kirk to dry the things in." "Next Sunday," declared the
unconsciously amusing Welshman, "there'll be no Sunday, as we're going
to whitewash the church with yellow-ochre." Sometimes the omission of a
stop caused sore trouble to the clerk, while it hugely delighted the
congregation. "A man having gone to see his wife desires the prayers of
this church," was the startling announcement. But had not the clerk been
near-sighted and mistaken _sea_ for _see_, and had a comma been supplied
after sea, the notice would have been all right, for it was simply the
request of a sailor's wife on behalf of her husband.
Once the clerk made the announcement that a parish meeting would be held
on a given date. "No, no," interrupted the vicar. "D'ye think I'd attend
to business on the audit day!" The audit days were recognised as times
of hearty feasting and convivial mirth, in which the vicar played no
unimportant part. This freedom of speech between clergyman and clerk was
not seldom fruitful of ill-restrained amusement when the announcements
were made. A vicar informed his congregation one Sunday morning that he
would hold the customary service for baptisms in the afternoon, and
requested the parents to bring their children punctually, so that there
might be no delay in commencing. Immediately he had said this, the old
clerk, sleepy and deaf, thinking the parson's announcement had to do
with a new hymn-book which at that time was being introduced, arose, and
graciously informed the people that for those who were still without
them he had a stock in the vestry from which they could be supplied at
the low charge of eighteenpence each. This is slightly similar:--"I
publish the banns of marriage between ... between ..." announced a
clergyman from the pulpit. But here for a moment he stopped, as the book
in which were the notices was not to be seen. The clerk, seeing his
vicar's predicament, and catching sight of the whereabouts of the
missing book, ejaculated:--"Between the cushion and the desk, sir." The
unique character of another notice will fully justify its inclusion. "I
am unwell, my friends, very unwell," announced a preacher one Sunday
evening, "and therefore I shall dispense with my usual gesticulation."
This happened not very long ago.
So disregarded, indeed, were the proprieties of worship a generation
since, that the clergyman would sometimes pause during the delivery of
his sermon and make an announcement which, to say the least of it, had
no connection with the theme he was pursuing. Thus the Rev. Samuel
Sherwen, a well-known cleric in Cumberland, announced one morning that
he had just caught sight, through a window near the pulpit, of some cows
in a cornfield, and requested that some one would go and drive them out.
At another time he said there were some pigs in the churchyard which
were not his, and his servant Peter would do well to expel the
intruders. Very probably such announcements, though made from a pulpit,
would be excused because they resulted in a certain benefit. The same
plea could undoubtedly be put forward for the following trio, each of
which hails from beyond the Severn. "Take notice!" exclaimed the clerk.
"A thief is going through the Vale of Glamorgan selling tin ware, false
gold, trinkets, and rings, and other domestic implements and
instruments, and robbing houses of hens, chickens, eggs, butter, and
other portable animals, making all sorts of pretences to get money!"
Again, "Beware! beware! of a man with one eye, talking like a preacher,
and a wooden leg, given to begging and stealing!" And once more, "Take
notice! take notice! there's a mad dog going the round of the parish
with two crop ears and a very long tail!" Surely the intention of such
announcements was good, even though the literary form was bad. The last,
as might be inferred, was made at a time when rabies were prevalent.
The Rev. Samuel Sherwen, already alluded to, was surpassed in this
direction by another Cumbrian clergyman, the Rev. William Sewell, of
Troutbeck. One Sunday morning the latter entered the pulpit of the
little church at Wythburn to preach. The pulpit sadly needed repair,
and, in leaning out from the wall, left an undesirable opening behind
it. Into this chink the parson's sermon fell, and the pulpit was so
ricketty in its broken-down condition that the preacher feared the
consequences of turning in it. Moreover, the manuscript had fallen so
far that it could not be reached. Mr. Sewell, bereft of his sermon,
announced to his congregation in broad dialect: "T' sarmont's slipt down
i' t' neuk, and I can't git it out; but I'll tell ye what--I'se read ye
a chapter i' t' Bible 'at's worth three on't." A similar story is told
in connection with the Rev. Mr. Alcock, who in the middle of the last
century was rector of Burnsal, near Skipton, in Yorkshire. Of this
clergyman another story is given which well illustrates the excessive
familiarity indulged in by occupants of the pulpit in bygone days. One
of his friends, at whose house he was wont to call previous to entering
the church on Sundays, seized a chance to unfasten and then misplace the
leaves of his sermon. In the service the parson had not read far before
he discovered the trick. "Will," cried he, "thou rascal! what's thou
been doing with my sermon?" Then turning to his people, he continued:
"Brethren, Will Thornton's been misplacing the leaves of my sermon; I
have not time to put them right; I shall read on as I find it, and you
must make the best of it that you can." He accordingly read to the close
of the confused mass to the utter astonishment of his congregation.
Of such familiarity Scottish churches furnish well-nigh innumerable
instances. One or two will, however, be sufficient for my purpose. The
clergyman who was expected to conduct the morning service had not made
his appearance at the appointed time. After a dreadful suspense of some
fifteen minutes the beadle, that much-privileged individual, entered the
church, marched slowly along the accustomed passage, and mounted the
pulpit-stair. When half-way up he stopped, turned to the congregation,
and thus addressed them: "There was one Alexander to hae preached here
the day, but he's neither come hissel; nor has he sent the scrape o' a
pen to say what's come owre him. Ye'd better keep your seats for anither
ten meenits to see whether the body turns up or no. If he disna come,
there's naething for 't but for ye a' to gang hame again an' say
naething mair aboot it. The like o' this hasna happened here syne I hae
been conneckit wi' the place, an' that's mair than four-and-thirty year
now." As an announcement to the point, and for the purpose, that could
not easily be beaten. A clergyman of Crossmichael, in Galloway, would
even intersperse his lessons or sermon with any announcement that might
at the moment occur to him, or with allusions to the behaviour of his
hearers. Once, because of this method, a verse from Exodus was hardly
recognisable. The version given was as follows: "And the Lord said unto
Moses--shut that door; I'm thinkin' if ye had to sit beside that door
yersel', ye wadna be sae ready leavin' it open; it was just beside that
door that Yedam Tamson, the bellman, gat his death o' cauld, an' I'm
sure, honest man, he didna lat it stey muckle open.--And the Lord said
unto Moses--put oot that dog; wha is't that brings dogs to the kirk,
yaff-yaffin'? Lat me never see ye bring yer dogs here ony mair, for, if
ye do, tak notice, I'll put you an' them baith oot.--And the Lord said
unto Moses--I see a man aneeth that wast laft wi' his hat on; I'm sure
ye're cleen oot o' the souch o' the door; keep aff yer bonnet, Tammas,
an' if yer bare pow be cauld, ye maun jist get a grey worset wig like
mysel'; they're no sae dear; plenty o' them at Bob Gillespie's for
tenpence." At last, however, the preacher informed his hearers what was
said to Moses in a manner at once more accurate and becoming.
It was, indeed, a usual custom for the clergyman publicly to rebuke
offenders, as when it happened that a young man, sitting in a prominent
position in the church, pulled out his handkerchief and brought with it
a bundle of playing cards, which flew in every direction. He had, so it
turned out, been up late the previous night, and had stuffed the cards
with which he had been gambling into his pocket, where they had remained
forgotten. The people were amazed and horrified, but the clergyman
simply looked at the offender and remarked with quiet, yet most
withering sarcasm, "Sir, that prayer book of yours has been badly
bound!" But some times the rebuke was deftly thrust back upon the
preacher. "You're sleepy, John," said the clergyman, pausing in the
middle of a drowsy discourse, and looking hard at the man he thus
addressed. "Take some snuff, John." "Put the snuff in the sermon,"
ejaculated John; and the faces of the audience showed that the retort
was fully appreciated.
In fact, such was the freedom tolerated, that this incident in Eskdale
might be taken as an example. Someone walked noisily up the aisle during
divine service. "Whaa's tat?" asked the clergyman in a tone quite loud
enough to rebuke the offender. "It's aad Sharp o' Laa Birker,"
responded the clerk. "Afooat or o' horseback?" was the significant
query. "Nay," was the answer, "nobbet afooat, wi' cokert shun" (calkered
shoes). Frequently the clerk would interrupt the clergyman, and the
interruption would not enhance the devotional character of the service.
In a rural parish church a new pitch-pipe was provided, but the clerk
had not tested it before entering his desk on the Sunday, and when he
should have given the key-note the instrument could not be adjusted. The
clerk tugged at it, thrust it in, gave it several thumps, made sundry
grimaces, but the pipe was obdurate. "My friends," announced the
impatient parson, "the pitch-pipe will not work, so let us pray."
"Pray!" snorted the aggrieved official, "pray! no, no, we'll pray none
till I put this thing aright." And members of the congregation would
even stand up in their pews to contradict the parson or clerk when
making the announcement. "There will be a service here as usual on
Thursday evening next," announced the clerk one Sunday morning. "No,
there won't," declared the churchwarden as he rose from his seat. "We be
going to carry hay all day Thursday." "But the service will be held as
usual," asserted the clerk. But the churchwarden was not to be thwarted.
"Then there'll be nobody here," said he. "D'ye think we're coming to
church and leave the hay in the fields? No, no, p'r'aps it'll rain
Friday."
But of all amusing instances of curious announcements in church those
given by the Rev. Cuthbert Bede in _All the Year Round_, November 1880,
may take the palm and fittingly conclude this chapter. "An old rector of
a small country parish," so runs the story, "had sent his set of false
teeth to be repaired, on the understanding that they should be returned
"by Saturday" as there was no Sunday post, and the village was nine
miles from the post town. The old rector tried to brave out the
difficulty, but after he had incoherently mumbled through the prayers,
he decided not to address his congregation on that day. While the hymn
was being sung, he summoned the clerk to the vestry, and then said to
him: "It is quite useless for me to attempt to go on. The fact is, that
my dentist has not sent me back my artificial teeth, and it is
impossible for me to make myself understood. You must tell the
congregation that the service is ended for this morning, and that there
will be no service this afternoon." The old clerk went back to his desk;
the singing of the hymn was brought to an end; and the rector, from the
vestry, heard the clerk address the congregation thus: "This is to give
notice! as there won't be no sarmon nor no more sarvice this mornin', so
you' better all go whum (home); and there won't be no sarvice this
aternoon, as the rector ain't got his artful teeth back from the
dentist!"
Big Bones Preserved in Churches.
By the Rev. R. Wilkins Rees.
In a lovely and secluded valley in Montgomeryshire is situated the
interesting old church of Pennant Melangell, of whose foundation a
charming legend is told. The romantic glen was in the first instance the
retreat of a beautiful Irish maiden, Monacella (in Welsh, Melangell),
who had fled from her father's court rather than wed a noble to whom he
had promised her hand, that here she might alone "serve God and the
spotless virgin." Brochwell Yscythrog, Prince of Powys, being one day
hare-hunting in the locality, pursued his game till he came to a
thicket, where to his amazement he found a lady of surpassing beauty,
with the hare he was chasing safely sheltered beneath her robe.
Notwithstanding all the efforts of the sportsman to make them seize
their prey, the dogs had retired to a distance, howling as though in
fear, and even when the huntsman essayed to blow his horn, it stuck to
his lips. The Prince, learning the lady's story, right royally assigned
to her the spot as a sanctuary for ever to all who fled there. It
afterwards became a safe asylum for the oppressed, and an institution
for the training of female devotees. But how long it so continued cannot
be said. Monacella's hard bed used to be shown in the cleft of a
neighbouring rock, while her tomb was in a little oratory adjoining the
church.
In the church is to be found carved woodwork, which doubtless once
formed part of the rood-loft, representing the legend of Saint
Melangell. The protection afforded by the saint to the hare gave such
animals the name of Wyn Melangell--St. Monacella's lambs--and the
superstition was so fully credited that no person would kill a hare in
the parish, while it was also believed that if anyone cried "God and St.
Monacella be with thee" after a hunted hare, it would surely escape.
The church contains another interesting item in the shape of a large
bone, more than four feet long, which has been described as the bone of
the patron saint. Southey visited the church, and in an amusing rhyming
letter addressed to his daughter, thus refers to it: "'Tis a church in a
vale, whereby hangs a tale, how a hare being pressed by the dogs was
much distressed, the hunters coming nigh and the dogs in full cry,
looked about for someone to defend her, and saw just in time, as it now
comes pat in rhyme, a saint of the feminine gender. The saint was buried
there, and a figure carved with care, in the churchyard is shown, as
being her own; but 'tis used for a whetstone (like a stone at our back
door), till the pity is the more (I should say the more's the pity, if
it suited with my ditty), it is whetted half away--lack-a-day,
lack-a-day! They show a mammoth rib (was there ever such a fib?) as
belonging to the saint Melangell. It was no use to wrangle, and tell the
simple people that if this had been her bone, she must certainly have
grown to be three times as tall as the steeple!"
In Lewis's "Topographical Dictionary of Wales" (1843), we are told that
on the mountain between Bala and Pennant Melangell was found a large
bone named the Giant's Rib, perhaps the bone of some fish, now kept in
the church. But where the bone came from it is quite impossible to say.
Old superstitions have clung to it, and beyond what tradition furnishes
there is practically nothing for our guidance.
It is somewhat strange that in the same county, in connection with the
church at Mallwyd, other bones are exhibited. Of this church, surrounded
by romantic scenery, the Dr. Davies, who rendered into Welsh the
Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England, and assisted Bishop Perry
in the translation of the Bible, was for many years incumbent. The
sacred edifice was far-famed for its magnificent yew trees, and for the
position of the communion table in the centre. Archbishop Laud issued
orders that it should be placed at the east end, but Dr. Davies defied
the prelate, and restored it to its old position, where, according to
Hemmingway's "Panorama of North Wales," in which the church was
described as a "humble Gothic structure, the floor covered with rushes,"
it remained till 1848. It is not, however, so placed now. Over the porch
of this church some bones are suspended, but no palaeontologist has yet
decided as to their origin. It has been said that they are the rib and
part of the spine of a whale caught in the Dovey in bygone days!
Whatever may be the truth, however, it is not now to be ascertained, but
must remain shrouded in mystery with that concerning the bones at
Pennant Melangell. The bones were in their present position in 1816,
for they are then mentioned by Pugh in his _Cambria Depicta_.
England has several instances of big bones preserved in churches, and
one story seems to be told regarding almost all. A most interesting
example is to be found over one of the altar tombs in the Foljambe
Chapel, Chesterfield Church. This bone, supposed to be the jawbone of a
small whale, is seven feet four inches in length, and about thirteen
inches, on an average, in circumference. Near one end is engraved, in
old English characters, the name "Thomas Fletcher." The Foljambes
disposed of their manor in 1633 to the Ingrams, who in turn sold it to
the Fletchers, and thus the name on the bone is accounted for. A
generally-accepted explanation about this bone--not even disbelieved
entirely at the present day--was that it formed a rib of the celebrated
Dun Cow of Dunsmore Heath, killed by the doughty Guy of Warwick, with
whom local tradition identified the warrior whose marble effigy lies
beneath the bone, sent to Chesterfield to celebrate the much-appreciated
victory.
[Illustration: THE DUN COW, DURHAM CATHEDRAL.]
It is interesting to remember here the legendary story of the foundation
of Durham Cathedral, which explains certain carving on the north
front of that majestic pile. While the final resting-place of St.
Cuthbert was still undetermined, "it was revealed to Eadmer, a virtuous
man, that he should be carried to Dunholme, where he should find a place
of rest. His followers were in distress, not knowing where Dunholme lay;
but as they proceeded, a woman, wanting her cow, called aloud to her
companion to know if she had seen her, when the other answered that she
was in Dunholme. This was happy news to the distressed monks, who
thereby knew that their journey's end was at hand, and the saint's body
near its resting-place." It has been said that the after riches of the
See of Durham gave rise to the proverb, "The dun cow's milk makes the
prebend's wives go in silk."
But to return to the dun cow slain by Guy. That the champion was
credited of old with having overcome some such animal is evident from
the matter-of-fact fashion in which it is recorded by ancient
chroniclers. In Percy's "Reliques of Antient Poetry," occur the
following verses in a black-letter ballad which sings the exploits of
Guy:--
"On Dunsmore heath I alsoe slewe
A monstrous wyld and cruell beast,
Called the Dun-Cow of Dunsmore heath,
Which manye people had opprest.
Some of her bons in Warwicke yett
Still for a monument doe lye;
Which unto every lookers viewe
As wondrous strange, they may espye."