account-books. Thus in the accounts of Barton-on-Humber there is an entry for the year 1740: “Paid Brocklebank for waking sleepers 2 s. 0.” At Castleton the officer in 1722 received 10 s. 0[79]. The clerk in his capacity of dog-whipper had often arduous duties to perform in the old dale churches of Yorkshire when farmers and shepherds frequently brought their dogs to church. The animals usually lay very quietly beneath their masters’ seat, but occasionally there would be a scrimmage and fight, and the clerk’s staff was called into play to beat the dogs and produce order.
[Footnote 79: The reader will find numerous entries relating to this subject in the work of Mr. W. Andrews to which I have referred.]
Why dogs should have been ruthlessly and relentlessly whipped out of churches I can scarcely tell. The Highland shepherd’s dog usually lies contentedly under his master’s seat during a long service, and even an archbishop’s collie, named Watch, used to be very still and well-behaved during the daily service, only once being roused to attention and a stately progress to the lectern by the sound of his master’s voice reading the verse “I say unto all, Watch.” But our ancestors made war against dogs entering churches. In mediaeval and Elizabethan times such does not seem to have been the case, as one of the duties of the clerks in those days was to make the church clean from the “shomeryng of dogs.” The nave of the church was often used for secular purposes, and dogs followed their masters. Mastiffs were sometimes let loose in the church to guard the treasures, and I believe that I am right in stating that chancel rails owe their origin to the presence of dogs in churches, and were erected to prevent them from entering the sanctuary. Old Scarlett bears a dog-whip as a badge of his office, and the numerous bequests to dog-whippers show the importance of the office.
Nor were dogs the only creatures who were accustomed to receive chastisement in church. The clerk was usually armed with a cane or rod, and woe betide the luckless child who talked or misbehaved himself during service. Frequently during the course of a long sermon the sound of a cane (the Tottenham clerk had a split cane which made no little noise when used vigorously) striking a boy’s back was heard and startled a sleepy congregation. It was all quite usual. No one objected, or thought anything about it, and the sermon proceeded as if nothing had happened. Paul Wootton, clerk at Bromham, Wilts, seventy years ago performed various duties during the service, taking his part in the gallery among the performers as bass, flute serpent, an instrument unknown now, etc., pronouncing his Amen _ore rotundo_ and during the sermon armed with a long stick sitting among the children to preserve order. If any one of the small creatures felt that _opere in longo fas est obrepere somnum_, the long stick fell with unerring whack upon the urchin’s head. When Mr. Stracey Clitherow went to his first curacy at Skeyton, Norfolk, in 1845, he found the clerk sweeping the whole chancel clear of snow which had fallen through the roof. The font was of wood painted orange and red. The singers sat within the altar rails with a desk for their books inside the rails. There was a famous old clerk, named Bird, who died only a year or two ago, aged ninety, and, as Mr. Clitherow informed Bishop Stanley, was the best man in the parish, and was well worthy of that character.
Even in London churches unfortunate events happened, and somnolent clerks were not confined to the country. A correspondent remembers that in 1860, when St. Martin’s-in-the-Fields was closed for the purpose of redecorating, his family migrated to St. Matthew’s Chapel, Spring Gardens (recently demolished), where one hot Sunday evening one of the curates of St. Martin’s was preaching, and in the course of his sermon said that it was the duty of the laity to pray that God would “endue His ministers with righteousness.” The clerk was at the moment sound asleep, but suddenly aroused by the familiar words, which acted like a bugle call to a slumbering soldier, he at once slid down on the hassock at his feet and uttered the response “And make Thy chosen people joyful.” My informant remarks that the “chosen people” who were present became “joyful” to an unseemly degree, in spite of strenuous efforts to restrain their feelings.
Sometimes the clerk was not the only sleeper. A tenor soloist of Wednesbury Old Church eighty years ago used to tell the story of the vicar of Wednesbury, who one very sultry afternoon retired into the vestry, which was under the western tower, to don his black gown while a hymn was being sung by the expectant congregation. The hymn having been sung through, and the preacher not having returned to ascend the pulpit, the clerk gave out the last verse again. Still no parson. Then he started the hymn, directing it to be sung all through again; but still the vicar returned not. At last in desperation he gave out that they “would now sing,” etc. etc., the 119th Psalm. Mercifully before they had all sunk back into their seats exhausted the long-lost parson made his hurried reappearance. The poor old gentleman had dropped into an arm-chair in the vestry, and overcome by the heat had fallen soundly asleep. As to the clerk, he could not leave his seat to go in search of him; there was no precedent for both vicar and clerk to be away from the three-decker before the service was brought to a close.
The old clerk is usually intensely loyal to the Church and to his clergyman, but there have been some exceptions. An example of a disloyal clerk comes from the neighbourhood of Barnstaple.
A parish clerk, apparently religious and venerable, held his position in a village church in that district for thirty years. He carried out his duties with regularity and thoroughness equalled only by the parish priest. This old clerk would frequently make remarks–not altogether pleasing–about Nonconformists, whom he summed up as a lot of “mithudy nuezenses” (methodist nuisances).
A new rector came and brought with him new ideas. The parish clerk would not be required for the future. As soon as the old clerk heard this he attached himself to a local dissenting body and joined with them to worship in their small chapel. This, after thirty years’ service in the Church and a bitter feeling against Nonconformists, is rather remarkable.
In the forties there was a sleepy clerk at Hampstead, a very portly man, who did ample justice to his bright red waistcoat and brass buttons. The church had a model old-time three-decker. The lower deck was occupied by the clerk, the upper deck by the reader, and the quarter-deck by the preacher. The clerk, during the sermon, would often fall asleep and make known his state by a snore. Then the reader would tap his bald head with a hymn-book, whereupon he would wake up and startle the congregation by a loud and prolonged “Ah-men.”
We are accustomed now to have our churches beautifully decorated with flowers and fruits and holly and evergreens at the great festivals and harvest thanksgiving services. Sometimes on the latter occasions our decorations are perhaps a little too elaborate, and remind one of a horticultural show. No such charge could be brought against the old-fashioned method of church decoration. Christmas was the only season when it was attempted, and sprigs of holly stuck at the corners of the old square pews in little holes made for the purpose were always deemed sufficient. This was always the duty of the clerk. Later on, when a country church was found to be elaborately decorated for Christmas and the clerk was questioned on the subject, he replied, shaking his head, “Ah! we’re getting a little High Church now.” At Langport, Somerset, the pews were similarly adorned on Palm Sunday with sprigs of the catkins from willow trees to represent palms.
I have already mentioned some instances of clerks who were sometimes elated by the dignity of the office and full of conceit. Wesley enjoyed the experience of having a conceited clerk at Epworth, who not only was proud of his singing and other accomplishments, but also of his personal appearance. He delighted to wear Wesley’s old clerical clothes and especially his wig, which was much too big for the insignificant clerk’s head. John Wesley must have had a sense of humour, though perhaps it might have been exhibited in a more appropriate place. However, he was determined to humble his conceited clerk, and said to him one Sunday morning, “John, I shall preach on a particular subject this morning, and shall choose my own psalm, of which I will give out the first line, and you will proceed and repeat the next as usual.” When the time for psalmody arrived Wesley gave out, “Like to an owl in ivy bush,” and the clerk immediately responded, “That rueful thing am I.” The members of the congregation looked up and saw his small head half-buried in his large wig, and could not restrain their smiles. The clerk was mortified and the rector gratified that he should have been taught a lesson and learned to be less vain.
Old-fashioned ways die hard. Only seven years ago the incumbent of a small Somerset parish found when in the pulpit that he had left his spectacles at home. Casting a shrewd glance around, he perceived just below him, well within reach, one of his parishioners who was wearing a large pair of what in rustic circles are termed “barnacles” tied behind his head. Stretching down, the parson plucked them from the astonished owner’s brow, and, fitting them on his clerical nose, proceeded to deliver his discourse. Thenceforward the clerk, doubtless fearing for his own glasses, never failed to carry to church a second pair wherewith to supply, if need be, his coadjutor’s shortcomings.
Another and final story of sleepy manners comes to us from the north country. A short-sighted clergyman of what is known as the “old school” was preaching one winter afternoon to a slumberous congregation. Dusk was falling, the church was badly lighted, and his manuscript difficult to decipher. He managed to stumble along until he reached a passage which he rendered as follows: “Enthusiasm, my brethren, enthusiasm in a good cause is an excellent–excellent quality, but unless it is tempered with judgment, it is apt to lead us–apt to lead us–Here, Thomas,” handing the sermon to the clerk, “go to the window and see what it is apt to lead us into.”
CHAPTER XV
THE CLERK IN ART
The finest portrait ever painted of a parish clerk is that of Orpin, clerk of Bradford-on-Avon, Wilts, whose interesting old house still stands near the grand parish church and the beautiful little Saxon ecclesiastical structure. This picture is the work of Thomas Gainsborough, R.A., and is now happily preserved in the National Gallery. Orpin has a fine and noble face upon which the sunlight is shining through a window as he turns from the Divine Book to see the glories of the blue sky.
“Some word of life e’en now has met His calm benignant eye;
Some ancient promise breathing yet Of immortality.
Some heart’s deep language which the glow Of faith unwavering gives;
And every feature says ‘I know
That my Redeemer lives.'”
The size of this canvas is four feet by three feet two inches. Orpin is wearing a blue coat, black vest, white neck-cloth, and dark breeches. His hair is grey and curly, and falls upon his shoulders. He sits on a gilt-nailed chair at a round wooden table, on which is a reading-easel, supporting a large volume bound in dark green, and labelled “Bible, Vol. I.” The background is warm brown.
Of this picture a critic states: “The very noble character of the worthy old clerk’s head was probably an additional inducement to Gainsborough to paint the picture, Seldom does so fine a subject present itself to the portrait painter, and Gainsborough evidently sought to do justice to his venerable model by unusual and striking effect of lighting, and by more than ordinary care in execution. It might almost seem like impertinence to eulogise such painting, as this canvas contains painting which, unlike the works of Reynolds, seems fresh and pure as the day it left the easel; and it would be still more futile to attempt to define the master’s method.”
The history of the portrait is interesting. It was painted at Shockerwick, near Bradford, where Wiltshire, the Bath carrier, lived, who loved art so much that he conveyed to London Gainsborough’s pictures from the year 1761 to 1774 entirely free of charge. The artist rewarded him by presenting him with some of his paintings, _The Return from Harvest, The Gipsies’ Repast_, and probably this portrait of Orpin was one of his gifts. It was sold at Christie’s in 1868 by a descendant of the art-loving carrier, and purchased for the nation by Mr. Boxall for the low sum of L325.
The mediaeval clerk appears in many ancient manuscripts and illuminations, which show us, better than words can describe, the actual duties which he was called upon to perform. The British Museum possesses a number of pontificals and other illustrated manuscripts containing artistic representations of clerks. We see him accompanying the priest who is taking the last sacrament to the sick. He is carrying a taper and a bell, which he is evidently ringing as he goes, its tones asking for the prayers of the faithful for the sick man’s soul. This picture occurs in a fourteenth-century MS. [6 E. VI, f. 427], and in the same MS. we see another illustration of the priest administering the last sacrament attended by the clerk [6 E. VII, f. 70].
[Illustration: THE CLERK ATTENDING THE PRIEST AT HOLY BAPTISM]
[Illustration 2: THE CLERK ATTENDING THE PRIEST AT HOLY BAPTISM]
Another illustration shows the priest baptizing an infant which the male sponsor holds over the font, while the priest pours water over its head from a shallow vessel. The faithful parish clerk stands by the priest. This appears in the fifteenth-century MS. Egerton, 2019, f. 135.
In the MS. of Froissart’s Chronicle there is an illustration of the coronation procession of Charles V of France. The clerk goes before the cross-bearer and the bishop bearing his holy-water vessel and his sprinkler for the purpose of aspersing the spectators. We have already given two illustrations taken from a fourteenth-century MS. in the British Museum, which depict the clerk, as the _aquaebajalus_, entering the lord’s house and going first into the kitchen to sprinkle the cook with holy water, and then into the hall to perform a like duty to the lord and lady as they sit at dinner.
There is a fine picture in a French pontifical of the fifteenth century, which is in the British Museum (Tiberius, B. VIII, f. 43), of the anointing and coronation of a king of France. An ecclesiastical procession is represented meeting the king and his courtiers at the door of the cathedral of Rheims, and amongst the dignitaries we see the clerk bearing the holy-water vessel, the cross-bearer, and the thurifer swinging his censer. The clerk wears a surplice over a red tunic.
One other of these mediaeval representations of the clerk’s duties may be mentioned. It is a fifteenth-century French MS. in the British Museum (Egerton, 2019, f. 142), and represents the last scenes of this mortal life. The absolution of the penitent, the administration of the last sacrament, the woman mourning for her husband and arranging the grave-clothes, the singing of the dirige, the burial, and the reception of the soul of the departed by our Lord in glory. The clerk appears in several of these scenes. He is kneeling behind the priest in the administration of the last sacrament. Robed in surplice and cope he is chanting the Psalms for the departed, and at the burial he is holding the holy-water vessel for the asperging of the corpse.
There are several paintings by English artists which represent the old-fashioned clerk in all his glory in his throne in the lowest seat of the “three-decker.” Perhaps the most striking is the satirical sketch of the pompous eighteenth-century clerk as shown in Hogarth’s engraving of _The Sleeping Congregation_, to which I have already referred. As a contrast to Hogarth’s _Sleeping Congregation_ we may place Webster’s famous painting of a village choir, which is thoroughly life-like and inspiring. The old clerk with enrapt countenance is singing lustily. The musicians are performing on the ‘cello, clarionet, and hautboy, and the singers are chanting very earnestly and very vigorously the strains of some familiar melody. The picture is a very exact presentment of an old village choir of the better sort.
[Illustration: THE DUTIES OF A CLERK AT A DEATH AND FUNERAL]
[Illustration: THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD BY W.P. FRITH]
It was perhaps such a choir as this that an aged friend remembers in a remote Cornish village. It was a mixed choir, led by a ‘cello, flute, and clarionet. Tate and Brady’s version of the Psalms was used alternately with a favourite anthem arranged by some of the members. “We’ll wash our hands,” the basses led off in stentorian tones. Then the tenors followed. Then the trebles in shrill voices–“washed hands.” Finally, after a pause, the whole choir shouted triumphantly, “in innocenc_ee_”; and the congregation bore it, my friend naively remarks. The orchestra on one occasion struck work. Only the clerk, who played his ‘cello, remained faithful. To prove his loyalty he appeared as usual, gave out a hymn of many verses, and sang it through in his clear bass voice, to the accompaniment of his instrument.
It was not an unusual thing for the clerk to be the only chorister in a village church, and then sometimes strange things happened. There was a favourite tune which required the first half of one of the lines to be repeated thrice. This led to such curious utterances as “My own sal,” called out lustily three times, and then finished with “My own salvation’s rock to praise.” The thrice-repeated “My poor poll” was no less striking, but it was only a prelude to “My poor polluted heart.” A chorus of women and girls in the west gallery sang lustily, “Oh for a man,” _bis, bis_–a pause–“A mansion in the skies.” Another clerk sang “And in the pie” three times, supplementing it with “And in the pious He delights.” Another bade his hearers “Stir up this stew,” but he was only referring to “This stupid heart of mine.” Yet another sang lustily “Take Thy pill,” but when the line was completed it was heard to be “Take Thy pilgrim home.”
Returning to the artistic presentment of clerks, there is a fine sketch of one in Frith’s famous painting of the Vicar of Wakefield, whose gentle manners and loving character as conceived by Goldsmith are admirably depicted by the artist. Near the vicar stands the faithful clerk, a dear old man, who is scarcely less reverend than his vicar.
There is an old print of a portion of the church of St. Margaret, Westminster, which shows the Carolian “three-decker,” a very elaborate structure, crowned by a huge sounding-board. The clergyman is officiating in the reading desk, and a very nice-looking old clerk, clad in his black gown with bands, sits below. There is a pompous beadle with his flowing wig and a mace in an adjoining pew, and some members of the congregation appear at the foot of the “three-decker,” and in the gallery. It is a very correct representation of the better sort of old-fashioned service.
The hall of the Parish Clerks’ Company possesses several portraits of distinguished members of the profession, which have already been mentioned in the chapter relating to the history of the fraternity. By the courtesy of the company we are enabled to reproduce some of the paintings, and to record some of the treasures of art which the fraternity possesses.
[Illustration (upside down, by the way): PORTRAIT OF RICHARD HUNT THE RESTORER OF THE CLERKS’ ALMSHOUSES]
CHAPTER XVI
WOMEN AS PARISH CLERKS
A woman cannot legally be elected to the office of parish clerk, though she may be a sexton. There was the famous case of _Olive_ v. _Ingram_ (12 George I) which determined this. One Sarah Bly was elected sexton of the parish of St. Botolph without Aldersgate by 169 indisputable votes and 40 which were given by women who were householders and paid to the church and poor, against 174 indisputable votes and 20 given by women for her male rival. Sarah Bly was declared elected, and the Court upheld the appointment and decreed that women could vote on such elections.
Cuthbert Bede states that in 1857 there were at least three female sextons, or “sextonesses,” in the City of London, viz.: Mrs. Crook at St. Mary the Virgin, Aldermanbury; Mrs. E. Worley at St. Laurence, Jewry, King Street; and Mrs. Stapleton at St. Michael’s, Wood Street. In 1867 Mrs. Noble was sextoness of St. John the Baptist, Peterborough. The _Annual Register_ for 1759 mentions an extraordinary centenarian sextoness:
Died, April 30th, Mary Hall, sexton of Bishop Hill, York City, aged one hundred and five; she walked about and retained her senses till within three days of her death.
Evidently the duties of her office had not worn out the stalwart old dame.
Although legally a woman may not perform the duties of a parish clerk, there have been numerous instances of female holders of the office. In the census returns it is not quite unusual to see the names of women returned as parish clerks, and we have many who discharge the duties of churchwarden, overseer, rate-collector, and other parochial offices.
One Ann Hopps was parish clerk of Linton about the year 1770, but nothing is known of her by her descendants except her name. Madame D’Arblay speaks in her diary of that “poor, wretched, ragged woman, a female clerk” who showed her the church of Collumpton, Devon. This good woman inherited her office from her deceased husband and received the salary, but she did not take the clerk’s place in the services on Sunday, but paid a man to perform that part of her functions.
The parish register of Totteridge tells of the fame of Elizabeth King, who was clerk of that place for forty-six years. The following extract tells its own story:
March 2nd, 1802, buried Elizabeth King, widow, for 46 years clerk of this parish, in the 91st year of her age, who died at Whetstone in the Parish of Finchley, Feb. 24th.
N.B.–This old woman, as long as she was able to attend, did constantly, and read on the prayer-days, with great strength and pleasure to the hearers, though not in the clerk’s place; the desk being filled on the Sunday by her son-in-law, Benjamin Withall, who did his best[80].
[Footnote 80: Burn’s _History of Parish Registers_, p. 129.]
Under the shade of the episcopal palace at Cuddesdon, at Wheatley, near Oxford, about sixty-five years ago, a female clerk, Mrs. Sheddon, performed the duties of the office which had been previously discharged by her husband. At Avington, near Hungerford, Berks, Mrs. Poffley was parish clerk for a period of twenty-five years at the beginning of the last century. About the same time Mary Mountford was parish clerk of Misterton, near Crewkerne, Somersetshire, for upwards of thirty years. A female clerk was acting at Igburgh, Norfolk, in 1853; and at Sudbrook, near Lincoln, in 1830, a woman also officiated and died in the service of the Church. Nor was the office confined to rural women of the working class. Mr. Ellacombe remembered to have seen “a gentle-woman acting as parish clerk of some church in London.”
There are doubtless many other instances of women serving as parish clerks, and one of my correspondents remembers a very remarkable example.
In the village of Willoughton, Lincolnshire, more than seventy years ago, there lived an old dame named Betty Wells, who officiated as parish clerk. For many years Betty sat in the lowest compartment of the three-decker pulpit, reading the lessons and leading the responses, and, with the exception of ringing the church bell, fulfilling all the duties of clerk.
But Betty was also looked upon as a witch, and several stories are told of how she made things very unpleasant for those who offended her.
One day there had been a christening at which Betty had done her share; but by some unfortunate oversight she was not invited to the feast which took place afterwards. No sooner had the guests seated themselves at the table than a great cloud of soot fell down the chimney smothering all the good things, so that nothing could be eaten. Then, too late, they remembered that Betty Wells had not been invited, and perfectly confident were they that she had had her revenge by spoiling the feast.
One of the farmers let Betty have straw for bedding her pig in return for manure. When one of his men came to fetch the manure away, she thought he had taken too much. So she warned him that he would not go far–neither did he, for the cart tipped right over. And that was Betty again!
We know Betty had a husband, for we hear that one evening when he came home from his work his wife had ever so many tailors sitting on the table all busily stitching. When John came in they vanished.
A few people still remember Betty Wells, and they shake their heads as they say, “Well, you see, the old woman had a very queer-looking eye,” giving you to understand that it was with that particular eye she worked all these wonders.
The story of Betty Wells has been gleaned from scraps supplied by various old people and collected by Miss Frances A. Hill, of Willoughton. The unfortunate christening feast took place after the baptism of her father, and the story was told to her by an old aunt, now dead, who was grown up at the time (1830) and could remember it all distinctly. The people who told Miss Hill about Betty and her weird witch-like ways fully believed in her supernatural powers.
Another Betty, whose surname was Finch, was employed at the beginning of the last century at Holy Trinity Church, Warrington, as a “bobber,” or sluggard-waker[81]. She was the wife of the clerk, and was well fitted on account of her masculine form to perform this duty which usually fell to the lot of the parish clerk. She used to perambulate the church armed with a long rod, like a fishing-rod, which had a “bob” fastened to the end of it. With this instrument she effectually disturbed the peaceful slumbers of any one who was overcome with drowsiness. The whole family of Betty was ecclesiastically employed, as her son used to sing:
“My father’s a clerk,
My sister’s a singer,
My mother’s a bobber,
And I am a ringer.”
[Footnote 81: W. Andrews, _Curiosities of the Church_, p. 176.]
One of my correspondents tells of another female clerk who officiated in a dilapidated old church with a defective roof, and who held an umbrella over the unfortunate clergyman when he was reading the service, in order to protect him from the drops of rain that poured down upon him.
Doubtless in country places there are many other churches where female clerks have discharged the duties of the office, but history has not, as far as I am aware, recorded their names or their services. Perhaps in an age in which women have taken upon themselves to perform all kinds of work and professional duties formerly confined to men alone, we may expect an increase in the number of female parish clerks, in spite of legal enactments and other absurd restrictions. Since women can be churchwardens, and have been so long ago as 1672, sextons, overseers and registrars of births, and much else, and even at one time were parish constables, it seems that the pleasant duties of a parish clerk might not be uncongenial to them, though they be debarred by law from receiving the title and rank of the office.
CHAPTER XVII
SOME YORKSHIRE CLERKS
During many years of the time that the Rev. John Torre occupied the rectory of Catwick, Thomas Dixon[82] was associated with him as parish clerk. He is described as a little man, old-looking for his age, and in the later years of his life able to walk only with difficulty. These peculiarities, however, did not prevent his winning a young woman for his wife. Possibly she saw the sterling character of the man, and admired and loved him for it.
[Footnote 82: This account of the clerks Dixon and Fewson was sent by the Rev. J. Gaskell Exton, and is published by the permission of the editor of the _Yorkshire Weekly Post_.]
Dixon was strongly attached to the rector, so much so, that to him neither the rector nor the things belonging to the rector, whether animate or inanimate, could do wrong. He had a watch, and even though it might not be one of the best, a watch was no small acquisition to a working man of his time. He did not live in the days of the three-and-sixpenny marvel, or of the half-crown wonder, now to be found in the pocket of almost every schoolboy. Dixon’s watch was of the kind worn by the well-known Captain Cuttle, which Dickens describes as being “a silver watch, which was so big and so tight in the pocket that it came out like a bung” when its owner drew it from the depths to see the time. It must, consequently, have cost many half-crowns, but yet as timekeeper it was somewhat of a failure. In this, too, it resembled that of the famous captain of which its proud possessor, as everybody knows, used to say, “Put you back half-an-hour every morning, and about another quarter towards the afternoon, and you’ve a watch that can be equalled by a few and excelled by none.” Dixon, therefore, when asked the time of day, was usually obliged to go through an arithmetical calculation before he could reply.
On Sunday, however, all was different; he then had no hesitation whatever in at once declaring the correct time. For every Sunday morning he put his watch by the rector’s clock, and it mattered not how far the rector’s clock might be fast or slow, what that clock said was the true time for Dixon. And though the remonstrances of the parishioners might be loud and long, they were all in vain, for according to the rector’s clock he rang the church bells, and so the services commenced. He loved the rector, therefore the rector’s clock could not be wrong. Evidently Dixon was capable of strong affection, a quality of no mean moral order.
Before the enclosure of parishes was common, and their various fields separated by hedges or other fences; before, too, the ordnance survey with its many calculations was an accomplished fact, much more measuring of land in connection with work done each year was required than at present. It was a necessity, therefore, that each village should have in or near it a man skilled in the science of calculation. Consequently, the acquirement of figures was fostered, and so in the earlier part of the nineteenth century almost every parish could produce a man supposed to be, and who probably was, great in arithmetic. Catwick’s calculator was Dixon, and he was generally thought by his co-villagers to be as learned a one as any other, if not more so.
He had, however, a great rival at Long Riston. This was one Richard Fewson, who, like Dixon, was clerk of his parish; but while Dixon was a shopkeeper Fewson kept the village school.
Fewson’s modes of punishing refractory scholars were somewhat peculiar. Either a culprit was hoisted on the back of another scholar, or made to stoop till his nose entered a hole in the desk, and when in one or other of these positions was made to feel the singular sensation caused by a sound caning on that particular part of his anatomy which it is said “nature intends for correction.” Sometimes, too, an offender was made to sit in a small basket, to the cross handle of which a rope had been tied, and by this means he was hoisted to a beam near the roof of the school. Here he was compelled to stay for a longer or shorter period, according to the offence, knowing that, if he moved to ease his crippled position, the basket would tilt and he would fall to the floor.
On one occasion, with an exceptionally refractory pupil, his mode of punishment was even more peculiar still. Having told all the girls to turn their faces to the wall–and not one of them, so my informant, one of the boys, said, would dare to disobey the order–he chalked the shape of a grave on the floor of the schoolroom. He then made the boy, an incorrigible truant, strip off all his clothes, and when he stood covered only in nature’s dress, told him in solemn tones that he was going to bury him alive and under the floor. One scholar was then sent for a pick, and when this was fetched, another was sent for a shovel. By the time they were both brought, the truant was in a panic of fear, the end hoped for. The master then sternly asked the boy if he would play truant again, to which the boy quickly answered no. On this, he was allowed to dress, being assured as he did so that if ever again he stopped from school without leave he should certainly be buried alive, and so great was the dread produced, the boy from that time was regularly found at school.
If parents objected to these punishments, they were simply told to take their children from school, which, as Fewson was the only master for miles around, he knew they would be loath to do. Fewson taught nearly all the children of the district whose parents felt it necessary that they should have any education. He is said to have turned out good scholars in the three R’s, his curriculum being limited to these subjects, with, for an extra fee, mensuration added.
But Fewson, if he did not teach it, felt himself to be well up in astronomy. One summer, an old boy of his told me, he got the children–my informant amongst the number–to collect from their parents and others for a trip to Hornsea. When the money was all in he complained that the amount was insufficient for a trip, and suggested that a telescope he had seen advertised should be bought with the money. If this were done, he promised that those who had subscribed should have the telescope in turn to look through from Saturday to Monday. The telescope was purchased, and each subscriber had it once, and then it was no more seen. From that time it became the entire property of the master. The children never again collected for a trip, and small wonder.
Fewson was a good singer and musician generally, so in addition to his office as clerk he held the position of choirmaster. At church on Sunday he sat at the west end, the boys of the village sitting behind him, and it was part of his duty to see that they behaved themselves decorously. Should a boy make any disturbance Fewson’s hand fell heavily on the offender’s ears, and so sharply that the sound of the blows could be heard throughout the church. Such incidents as this were by no means uncommon in churches in the days when Fewson and Dixon flourished, and they were looked upon as nothing extraordinary, for small compunction was felt in the punishment of unruly urchins.
I have been told of another clerk, for instance, who dealt such severe blows on the heads of boys, who behaved in the least badly, with a by no means small stick, that, like Fewson’s, they, too, resounded all over the church. This clerk was known as “Old Crack Skull,” and there were many others who might as appropriately have borne the name.
As parish clerk, Fewson attended the Archdeacon’s visitation with the churchwardens, whose custom it was on each such occasion to spend about L3 in eating and drinking. On the appointment of a new and reforming churchwarden this expenditure was stopped, and for the first time Fewson returned to Riston sober. Here he looked at the churchwarden and sorrowfully said, “For thirty years I have been to the visitation and always got home drunk; Sally will think I haven’t been.” He then turned into the public-house, and afterwards reached home in the condition Sally, his wife, would expect.
[Illustration: THE CHURCH OF ST. MARGARET, WESTMINSTER]
Insobriety was the normal condition of Fewson after school hours. It was his invariable custom to visit the public-house each evening, where he always found a clean pipe and an ounce of tobacco ready for him. Here he acted as president of those who forgathered, being by virtue of his wisdom readily conceded this position. His favourite drink was gin, and of this he imbibed freely; leaving for home about ten o’clock, which he found usually only after many a stumble and sometimes a fall. He, however, managed to save money, with which he built himself a house at Arnold, adorning it, as still to be seen, with the carved heads of saints and others, begged from the owners of the various ancient ecclesiastical piles of the neighbourhood. He died about seventy years ago, and was buried at Riston.
Between Dixon and Fewson there was much friendly strife with regard to the solving of hard arithmetical problems. This contest was no mere private matter. It was entered into with great zest by the men of both the villages concerned; the Catwickians and the Ristonians each backing their man to win. “A straw shows which way the wind blows,” we say, and herein we may feel a breathing of the Holderness man’s love of his clan, an affection which has done much to develop and to strengthen his character.
Dixon was employed by the harvesters and others to measure the land which they had reaped, or on which they had otherwise worked. When the different measurements had been taken, he, of course, had to find the result. For this, he needed no pen, ink, or paper, nor yet a slate and pencil. He made his calculations by a much more economic method than these would supply. He sat down in the field he had measured, took off his beaver hat, and, using it as a kind of blackboard, with a piece of chalk worked out the result of his measurements on its crown.
Dixon must have been a man of resources, as are most Holderness men where the saving of money is concerned. I have heard it said that the spirit of economy has so permeated their character that it has influenced even their speech. “So saving are they,” say some, “that the definite article, _the_, is never used by them in their talk.” But this is a libel; another and a truer reason may be found for the omission in their Scandinavian origin.
Another parish clerk who held office at a church about five miles from Catwick, by trade a tailor, was a noted character and remarkable for his parsimonious habits. He is described as having been a very little man and of an extremely attenuated appearance. The story of his economy during his honeymoon, when the happy pair stayed in some cheap town lodgings, is not pleasing.
His great effort in saving, however, resulted from his sporting proclivities. Tailor though he was, he conceived a great desire to be a mighty hunter. So strong did this passion burn within him that he made up his mind, sooner or later, to hunt, and with the best, in a red coat, too. He therefore began to save with this object in view. Denying himself every luxury and most other things which are usually counted necessaries, for long he lived, it is said, on half a salt herring a day with a little bread or a few vegetables in addition. By doing so, he was able to put almost all he earned to the furtherance of the purpose of his heart. This went on till he had saved L200. Then he felt his day was come. He bought a horse, made himself the scarlet coat, and went to the hunt as he thought a gentleman should. His hunting lasted for two seasons, when, the money he had saved being spent, he went back to his trade, at which he worked as energetically as ever.
At the west end of the nave of Catwick Church formerly was erected a gallery. In this loft, as it was commonly called, the musicians of the parish sang or played. Various instruments, bassoon, trombone, violoncello, cornet, cornopean, and clarionet, flute, fiddle, and flageolet, or some of their number, were employed, calling to mind the band of Nebuchadnezzar of old. The noise made in the tuning of the instruments to the proper pitch may be readily imagined. Now, the church possesses an organ, and the choirmen and boys have their places in the chancel, while the musicians of the parish occupy the front seats of the nave. This arrangement is eminently suitable for effectually leading the praises of the people, but not perhaps more so, its noise notwithstanding, than the former style; indeed, I am somewhat doubtful if the new equals the old. The old certainly had the merit of engaging most, if not all, the musicians of the village in the worship of the church.
At the east end of the nave, in the days of the loft, stood a kind of triple pulpit, commonly called a three-decker. It was composed of three compartments, the second above and behind the first, and the third similarly placed with regard to the second. The lowest, resting on the floor, was the place for the clerk, the middle was for the parson when reading the prayers and Scriptures, and the highest for the parson when preaching. Such pulpits are now almost as completely things of the past as the old warships from which, in derision, they got their name. Once only have I read the service and preached from a three-decker, and then the clerk did not occupy the position assigned to him. Dixon, however, always used the little desk at the foot of the Catwick pulpit, and from it took his share of the service.
It was part of his duty, as clerk, to choose and to give out the number of the hymns. Now Dixon, like Fewson, was a singer, and felt that the choir could not get on without the help of his voice in the gallery when the hymns were sung. Consequently, he then left his box and went to the singing loft; but, to save time, as he marched down the aisle from east to west, and as he mounted the steps of the gallery, he slowly and solemnly announced the number of the hymn and read the lines of the first verse. When the hymn was sung, our bird-like clerk came down again from the heights of the loft and returned to his perch at the base of the pulpit.
Nowadays, we should consider such proceedings very unseemly, but it would have been thought nothing of in the days of Dixon. Scenes, according to our ideas, much more grotesque were then of frequent occurrence. We have already looked on at least one; here is another which took place in the neighbouring church of Skipsea one Sunday afternoon some sixty years ago, and in connection with singing. The account was given to me by a parishioner of about eighty years of age, who was one of the choirmen on the occasion.
The leading singer, he said, there being no instrument, started a tune for the hymn. It would not fit the words, and he soon came to a full stop, and choir and congregation with him. At this, one of the congregation, in a voice that could be heard the whole church over, called out, “Give it up, George! Give it up!” “No, no,” said the vicar in answer, leaning over his desk, “No, no, George, try again! try again!” George tried again, and again failed. But the vicar still encouraged him with “Have another try, George! Have another try! You may get it yet!” George tried the third time, and now hit upon a right tune; and to the general delight the hymn was sung through.
Without doubt, in the days of our forefathers the services of the Church were conducted with the greatest freedom. But we may not judge those who preceded us by our own standard, nor yet apart from the time in which they lived.
When two young people of Catwick or its neighbourhood feel they can live no longer without each other, they in local phrase “put in the banns.” They then, of course, expect to have them published, or again in local idiom “thrown over the pulpit.” On all such occasions, according to a very old custom, after the rector had read out the names, with the usual injunction following, from the middle compartment of the three-decker, Dixon would rise from his seat below, and slowly and clearly cry out, “God speed ’em weel” (God speed them well). By this pious wish he prayed for a blessing on those about to be wed, and in this the congregation joined, for they responded with Amen.
Dixon was the last of the Catwick clerks to keep this custom. Much more recently, however, than the time he held office, members of the congregation, usually those seated in the loft, on the publication of the banns of some well-known people, have called out the time-honoured phrase. But it is now heard no more. The custom has gone into a like oblivion to that of the parish clerk himself, once so important a person, in his own estimation if in that of no other, both in church and parish. “The old order changeth.”
Thomas Dixon died at Catwick when sixty-seven years of age. He was buried in the churchyard on January 2, 1833, and by the Rev. John Torre, the rector he served so faithfully.
When Sydney Smith went to see the out-of-the-way Yorkshire village of Foston-le-Clay, to which benefice he had been presented, his arrival occasioned great excitement. The parish clerk came forward to welcome him, a man eighty years of age, with long grey hair, thread-bare coat, deep wrinkles, stooping gait, and a crutch stick. He looked at the new parson for some time from under his grey shaggy eyebrows, and talked, and showed that age had not quenched the natural shrewdness of the Yorkshireman.
At last, after a pause, he said, striking his crutch stick on the ground:
“Master Smith, it often stroikes moy moind that folks as come frae London be such fools. But you,” he added, giving Sydney Smith a nudge with his stick, “I see you be no fool.” The new vicar was gratified.
Yorkshiremen are keen songsters, and _fortissimo_ is their favourite note of expression. “Straack up a bit, Jock! straack up a bit,” a Yorkshire parson used to shout to his clerk, when he wanted the Old Hundredth to be sung. Well do I remember a delightful old clerk in the Craven district, who used to give out the hymn in the accustomed form with charming manner. He liked not itinerant choirs, which were not uncommon forty or fifty years ago, and used to migrate from church to church, and sometimes to chapel, in the district where the members lived. One of these choirs visited the church where the Rev. —- Morris was rector, and he was directed to give out the anthem which the itinerant strangers were prepared to sing. He neither knew nor cared what an anthem was; and he gave the following somewhat confused notice:
“Let us sing to the praise and glory of God the fiftieth Psalm, _while you folks sing th’ anthem_,” casting a scornful glance at the wandering musicians in the opposite gallery.
Missionary meetings and sermons were somewhat rare in those days, but the special preacher for missions, commonly called the deputation, who performs for lazy clerics the task of instructing the people about work in the mission field–a duty which could well be performed by the vicar himself–had already begun his itinerant course. The congregation were waiting in the churchyard for his arrival, when the old Yorkshire vicar, mentioned above, said to his clerk, “Jock, ye maunt let ’em into th’ church; the dippitation a’n’t coom.” Presently two clergymen arrived, when the clerk called out, “Ye maunt gang hoame; t’ deppitation’s coom.” The old vicar made an excellent chairman, his introductory remarks being models of brevity: “T’ furst deppitation will speak!” “T’ second deppitation will speak!” after which the clerk lighted some candles in the singing gallery, and gave out for an appropriate hymn, “Vital spark of heavenly flame.”
A writer in _Chambers’s Journal_ tells of a curious class of clergymen who existed forty years ago, and were known as “Northern Lights,” the light from a spiritual point of view being somewhat dim and flickering. The writer, who was the vicar for twenty-five years of a moorland parish, tells of several clerks who were associated with these clerics, and who were as quaint and curious in their ways as their masters[83]. The village was a hamlet on the edge of the Yorkshire moors, near the confines of Derbyshire. Beside the church was a public-house kept by the parish clerk, Jerry, a dapper little man, who on Sundays and funeral days always wore a wig, an old-fashioned tailed coat, black stockings, and shoes with buckles. His house was known as “Heaven’s Gate,” where the farmers from the neighbouring farms used to drink and stay a week at a time. Jerry used to direct the funerals, make the clerkly responses, and then provide the funeral party with good cheer at his inn. His invitation was always given at the graveside in a high-pitched falsetto voice, and the formula ran in these words, and was never varied:
“Friends of the corpse is respectfully requested to call at my house, and partake then and there of such refreshments as is provided for them.”
[Footnote 83: By the kindness of the editor of _Chambers’s Journal_ I am permitted to retell some of the stories of the manners of these clerks and parsons.]
Much intemperance and disorder often followed these funeral feastings. An old song long preserved in the district depicts one of these funerals, which was by no means a one-day affair, but sometimes lasted several days, during which the drinking went on. The inn was perhaps a necessity in this out-of-the-world place, but it was unfortunately a great temptation to the inhabitants, and to the old Northern Light parson who preceded the vicar whose reminiscences we are recording. Here in the inn the old parson sat between morning and afternoon service with a long clay pipe in his mouth and a glass of whisky by his side. When the bells began to settle and the time of service approached, he would send Jerry to the church to see if many people had arrived. When Jerry replied:
“There’s not many comed yet, Mr. Nowton,” the parson would say:
“Then tell them to ring another peal, Jerry, and just fill up my glass again.”
The communion plate was kept at the inn under Jerry’s charge. Three times a year it was used, and the circumstances were disgraceful. Four bottles of port wine were deemed the proper allowance on communion days, and after a fractional quantity had been consumed in the church, the rest was finished by the churchwardens at the inn. One of these churchwardens drank himself to death after the communion service. He was a big man with a red face, and was always present when a bear was baited at the top of the hill above the village. One day the bear escaped and ran on to the moor; everybody scattered in all directions, and several dogs were killed before the bear was caught.
The successor of Jerry as clerk, but not as publican, was a rough, honest individual who was called Dick. When excited he had two oaths, “By’r Lady!” and “By the mass!” but as he always pronounced this last word _mess_, it was evident he did not understand the nature of the oath he used. He had a rough-and-ready way of doing things, and when handing out hymn-books during service he used to throw a book up to an applicant in the gallery to save the trouble of walking up the stairs in proper fashion. He talked the broadest Yorkshire dialect, and it was not always easy to understand him. This was particularly the case when, in his capacity as clerk, he repeated the responses at the funeral service.
A tremendous snowfall happened one winter, and the roads were all blocked. It was impossible for any one to go to church on the Sunday morning following the fall, as the snow had not been cleared away. It was necessary for the vicar, however, to get there, as he had to read out the banns of marriage which were being published; so, putting on fishing-waders to protect himself from the wet snow, he succeeded with some difficulty in getting through the drifts. In the churchyard, standing before the church clock, he found Dick intently gazing at it, so he asked him if it was going. His reply was laconic: “Noa; shoo’s froz.” He and the vicar then went into the church, and the necessary publication of banns was read in the presence of the clerk alone.
In those days it was necessary that the wedding service should be all over by twelve o’clock, and it was most important that due notice should be given of the date of the wedding, a matter about which Dick was sometimes rather careless.
The vicar had gone into Derbyshire for a few days to fish the River Derwent. He was fishing a long distance up the stream when he heard his name called, and saw his servant running towards him, who said that a wedding was waiting for him at the church. Dick had forgotten to give due notice of this event. The vicarage trap was in readiness, but the road over the Derbyshire Peak was rough and steep, the pony small, the distance ten miles, and the vicar encumbered with wet clothes. The chance of getting to the church before twelve o’clock seemed remote. But the vicar and pony did their best; it was, however, half an hour after the appointed time when they reached the church. Glancing at the clock in the tower, the vicar, to his astonishment, found the hands pointing to half-past eleven. The situation was saved, and the service was concluded within the prescribed time. The vicar turned to the clerk for an explanation. “I seed yer coming over the hill,” he said, “and I just stopped the clock a bit.” Dick was an ingenious man.
There was another character in the parish quite as peculiar as Dick, and he was one of the principal singers, who sat in the west gallery. He had formerly played the clarionet, before an organ was put into the church. During service he always kept a red cotton handkerchief over his bald head, which gave him a decidedly comic appearance.
On one occasion the clergyman gave out a hymn in the old-fashioned way: “Let us sing to the praise and glory of God the twenty-first hymn, second version.” Up jumped the old singer and shouted, “You’re wrang, maister; it’s first version.” The clergyman corrected himself, when the singer again rose: “You’re wrang agearn; it’s twenty-second hymn.” Without any remark the clergyman corrected the number, and the man again jumped up: “That’s reet, mon, that’s reet.” When the old singer died his widow was very anxious there should be some record on his tombstone of his having played the clarionet in church; so above his name a trumpet-shaped instrument was carved on the stone, and some doggerel lines were to be added below. The vicar had great difficulty in persuading the family to abandon the lines for the text, “The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised.”
A neighbouring vicar was on one occasion taking the duty of an old man with failing eyesight, and Dick reminded him before the afternoon service that there was a funeral at four o’clock. “You must come into the church and tell me when it arrives,” he told the clerk, “and I will stop my sermon.” It was the habit of the old clergyman to relapse into a strong Yorkshire dialect when speaking familiarly, and this will account for the brief dialogue which passed between him and Dick as he stood at the lectern. In due course the funeral arrived at the church gates, and the first intimation the congregation inside the church had of this fact was the appearance of Dick, who noisily threw open the big doors of the south porch. He then stood and beckoned to the clergyman, but his poor blind eyes could not see so far. Dick then came nearer and waved his hat before him. This again met with no response. Then he got near enough to pluck him by the arm, which he did rather vigorously, shouting at the same time, “Shoo’s coomed.” “Wha’s coomed?” replied the clergyman, relapsing into his Yorkshire speech. “Funeral’s coomed,” retorted Dick. “Then tell her to wait a bit while I finish my sermon”; and the old man went quietly on with his discourse.
Another instance of Dick’s failing to give proper notice of a service was as follows; but on this occasion it was not really his fault. Some large reservoirs were being made in the parish, and nearly a thousand navvies were employed on the works. These men were constantly coming and going, and very often they brought some infectious disorder which spread among the huts where they lived. One day a navvy arrived who broke out in smallpox of a very severe kind, and in a couple of days the man died, and the doctor ordered the body to be buried the moment a coffin could be got. It was winter-time, and the vicar had ridden over to see some friends about ten miles away. As the afternoon advanced it began to rain very heavily, and he decided not to ride back home, but to sleep at his friend’s house. About five o’clock a messenger arrived to say a funeral was waiting in the church, and he was to come at once. He started in drenching rain, which turned to sleet and snow as he approached the moor edges. It was pitch-dark when he got off his horse at the church gates, and with some difficulty he found his way into the vestry and put a surplice over his wet garments. He could see nothing in the church, but he asked when he got into the reading-desk if any one was there. A deep voice answered, “Yes, sir; we are here”; and he began the service, which long practice had taught him to repeat by heart. When about half-way through the lesson he saw a glimmer of light, and Dick entered the church with a lantern, which he placed on the top of the coffin. It was a gruesome scene which the lantern brought into view. There was the coffin, and before it, in a seat, four figures of the navvy-bearers, and Dick himself covered with snow and as white as if he wore a surplice. They filed out into the churchyard, but the wind had blown the snow into the grave, and this had to be got out before they could lower the body into it. The navvies, who were kind-hearted fellows, explained that they could give no notice of the funeral beforehand, and they quite understood the delay was no fault of the vicar’s or Dick’s.
Dick was, in spite of his faults, an honest and kind-hearted man, and his death, caused by a fall from a ladder, was much regretted by his good vicar. On his death-bed the old clerk sent for his favourite grandson, who succeeded him in his office, and made this pathetic request: “Thou’lt dig my grave, Jont, lad.”
With Dick the last of the “Northern Lights” flickered out. Nothing now remains in the village recalling those old times. The village inn has been suppressed, and the drinking bouts are over. The old church has been entirely restored, and there is order and decency in the services. The strange thing is that it should have been possible that only forty years ago matters were in such a state of chaos and disorder, and in such need of drastic reformation.
Another Yorkshire clerk flourished in the thirties at Bolton-on-Dearne named Thomas Rollin, commonly called Tommy. He used to render Psalm cii. 6: “I am become a _pee-li-can_ in the wilderness, and an owl in the _dee-sert_.” Tommy was a tailor by trade, and made use of a ready-reckoner to assist him in making up his accounts, and his familiarity with that useful book was shown when reading the second verse of the forty-fifth Psalm, which Tommy invariably read: “My tongue is the pen of a _ready-reckoner_,” to the immense delight of the youthful members of the congregation.
CHAPTER XVIII
AN OLD CHESHIRE CLERK AND SOME OTHER WORTHIES
It is nearly fifty years since I used to attend the quaint old parish church at Lawton, Cheshire, situate half-way between Congleton and Crewe. It is a lonely spot, “miles from anywhere,” having not the vestige of a village, and the congregation was formed of well-to-do farmers, who came from the scattered farmsteads. How well I remember the old parish clerk and the numerous duties which fell to his lot! He united in his person the offices of clerk, sexton, beadle, church-keeper, organist, and ringer. The organ was of the barrel kind, and no one knew how to manipulate the instrument or to change the barrels, except the clerk. He had also to place ten decent loaves in a row on the communion table every Sunday morning, which were provided by a charitable bequest for the benefit of the poor widows of the parish. If the widows did not attend service to curtsy for them, the loaves were given to any one who liked to take them. Old Clerk Briscall baked them himself. He kept a small village shop about two miles from the church. He was also the village shoemaker. A curious system prevailed. As you entered the church, near the large stove you would see a long bench, and under this bench a row of boots and shoes. If any one wanted his boots to be mended, he would take them to church with him and put them under the bench. These were collected by the cobbler-clerk, carried home in a sack, and brought back on the following Sunday neatly and carefully soled and heeled. It would seem strange now if on entering a church our eyes should light upon a row of farmers’ dirty old boots and the freshly-mended evidences of the clerk’s skill. All this took place in the fifties. In the sixties a new vicar came. The old organ wheezed its last phlegmatic tune; it was replaced by a modern instrument with six stops, and a player who did his best, but occasioned not a little laughter on account of his numerous breakdowns. The old high pews have disappeared, nice open benches erected, the floor relaid, a good choir enlisted, and everything changed for the better.
The poor old clerk must have been almost overwhelmed by his numerous duties, and was often much embarrassed and exasperated by the old squire, Mr. C.B. Lawton, who was somewhat whimsical in his ways. This gentleman used to enter the church by his own private door, and go to his large, square, high-panelled family pew, and when the vicar gave out the hymn, he used often to shout out, “Here, hold on! I don’t like that one; let’s have hymn Number 25,” or some such effort of psalmody. This request, or command, used to upset the organ arrangement, and the poor old clerk had to rummage among his barrels to get a suitable tune, and the operation, even if successful, took at least ten minutes, during which time a large amount of squeaking and the sounds of the writhing of woodwork and snapping of sundry catches were heard in the church. But the congregation was accustomed to the performance and thought little of it. (John Smallwood, 2 Mount Pleasant, Strangeways, Manchester.)
Caistor Church, Lincolnshire, famous for the curious old ceremony of the gad-whip, was also celebrated for its clerk, old Joshua Foster, who was officiating there in 1884 at the time of the advent of a new vicar. Trinity Sunday was the first Sunday of the new clergyman, who sorely puzzled the clerk by reading the Athanasian Creed. The old man peered down into the vicar’s family pew from his desk, casting a despairing glance at the wife of the vicar, who handed him a Prayer Book with the place found, so that he could make the responses. He was very economical in the use of handkerchiefs, and used the small pieces of paper on which the numbers of the metrical psalm were written. In vain did the wife of the vicar present him with red-and-white-spotted handkerchiefs, which were used as comforters. The church was lighted with tallow candles–“dips” they were called–and at intervals during the service Joshua would go round and snuff them. The snuffers soon became full, and it was a matter of deep interest to the congregation to see on whose head the snuff would fall, and to dodge it if it came their way.
The Psalms of Tate and Brady’s version were sung and were given out with the usual preface, “Let us sing to the praise and glory of God the 1st, 2nd, 5th, 8th, and 20th verses of the —- Psalm with the Doxology.” How that Doxology bothered the congregation! The Doxologies were all at the end of the Prayer Book, and it was not always easy to hit the right metre; but that was of little consequence. A word added if the line was too short, or omitted if too long, required skill, and made all feel that they had done their best when it was successfully over. After the old clerk’s death, he was succeeded by his son Joshua, or Jos-a-way, as the name was pronounced, whose son, also named Joshua the third, became clerk, and still holds the office.
The predecessor of the vicar was a pluralist, who held Caistor with its two chapelries of Holton and Clixby and the living of Rothwell. He was non-resident, and the numerous churches were served by a curate. This man was a great smoker, and used to retire to the vestry to don the black gown and smoke a pipe before the sermon, the congregation singing a Psalm meanwhile. One Sunday he had an extra pipe, and Joshua told him that the people were getting impatient.
“Let them sing another Psalm,” said the curate.
“They have, sir,” replied the clerk.
“Then let them sing the 119th,” replied the curate.
At last he finished his pipe, and began to put on the black gown, but its folds were troublesome, and he could not get it on.
“I think the devil’s in the gown,” muttered the curate.
“I think he be,” dryly replied old Joshua.
That the clerk was often a person of dignity and importance is shown by the recollections of an old parishioner of the rector of Fornham All Saints, near Bury St. Edmunds. “Mr. Baker, the clerk,” of Westley, who flourished seventy years ago, used to hear the children their catechism in church on Sunday afternoons. “Ah, sir, I often think of what he told us, that the world would not come to an end till people were killed _wholesale_, and now think how often that happens!” She was probably not alluding to the South African or the Japanese war, but to railway accidents, as she at once told her favourite story of her solitary journey to Newmarket, when on her return she remarked, “If I live to set foot on firm ground, never no more for me.”
The old clerk used to escort the boys and girls to their confirmation at Bury, and superintended their meal of bread, beer, and cheese after the rite. There was no music at Westley, except when Mr. Humm, the clerk of Fornham, “brought up his fiddle and some of the Fornham girls.” Nowadays, adds the rector, the Rev. C.L. Feltoe, the clerks are much more illiterate than their predecessors, and, unlike them, non-communicants.
Another East Anglian clerk was a quaint character, who had a great respect for all the old familiar residents in his town of S—-, and a corresponding contempt for all new-comers. The family of my informant had resided there for nearly a century, and had, therefore, the approval of the clerk. On one occasion some of the family found their seat occupied by some new people who had recently settled in the town. The clerk rushed up, and in a loud voice, audible all over the church, exclaimed:
“Never you mind that air muck in your pew. I’ll soon turn ’em out. The imperent muck, takin’ your seats!”
The family insisted upon “the muck” being left in peace, and forbade the eviction.
The old clerk used vigorously a long stick to keep the school children in order. He was much respected, and his death universally regretted.
Fifty years ago there was a dear, good old clerk, named Bamford, at Mangotsfield Church, who used to give out the hymns, verse by verse. The vicar always impressed upon him to read out the words in a loud voice, and at the last word in each verse to pitch his voice. The hymn, “This world’s a dream,” was rendered in this fashion:
“This world’s a _drame_, an empty shoe, But this bright world to which I goo
Hath jaays substantial an’ sincere, When shall I wack and find me THEER?”
William Smart, the parish clerk of Windermere in the sixties, was a rare specimen. By trade an auctioneer and purveyor of Westmorland hams, he was known all round the countryside. He was very patronising to the assistant curates, and a favourite expression of his was “me and my curate.” When one of his curates first took a wedding he was commanded by the clerk, “When you get to ‘hold his peace,’ do you stop, for I have something to say.” The curate was obedient, and stopped at the end of his prescribed words, when William shouted out, “God speed them well!”
This unauthorised but excellent clerkly custom was not confined to Windermere, but was common in several Norfolk churches, and at Hope Church, Derbyshire, the clerk used to express the good wish after the publication of the banns.
The old-fashioned clerk was usually much impressed by the importance of his office. Crowhurst, the old clerk at Allington, Kent, in 1852, just before a wedding took place, marched up to the rector, the Rev. E.B. Heawood, and said:
“If you please, sir, the ceremony can’t proceed.”
“Why not? What do you mean?” asked the surprised rector.
“The marriage can’t take place, sir,” he answered solemnly, “‘cos I’ve lost my specs.”
Fortunately a pupil of the rector’s came forward and confessed that he had hidden the old man’s spectacles in a hole in the wall, and the ceremony was no longer delayed.
At Bromley College the same clergyman had a curious experience, when the clerk was called to assist at a service for the Churching of Women. As it was very unusually performed there, he was totally at a loss what service to find, and asked in great perturbation:
“Please, sir, be I to read the responses in the services for the Queen’s Accession?”
The same service sadly puzzled the clerk at Haddington, who was in the employment of the then Earl of W—-. One Sunday Lady W—- came to be churched, when in response to the clergyman’s prayer, “O Lord, save this woman, Thy servant,” the clerk said, “Who putteth her ladyship’s trust in Thee.”
The Rev. W.H. Langhorne tells me some amusing anecdotes of old clerks. Once he was preaching in a village church for home missions, and just as he was reaching the pulpit he observed that the clerk was preparing to take round the plate. He whispered to him to wait till he had finished his sermon. “It won’t make a ha’porth o’ difference,” was the encouraging reply. But at the close of the sermon there was another invitation to give additional offerings, which were not withheld.
In the old days when _Bell’s Life_ was the chief sporting paper, a hunting parson was taking the service one Sunday morning and gave out the day of the month and the Psalm. The clerk corrected him, but the rector again gave out the same day and was again corrected. The rector, in order to decide the controversy, produced a copy of _Bell’s Life_ and handed it to the clerk, who then submitted. It is not often, I imagine, that a sporting paper has been appealed to for the purpose of deciding what Psalms should be read in church.
One very wet Sunday Mr. Langhorne was summoned to take an afternoon service several miles distant from his residence. The congregation consisted of only half a dozen people. After service he said to the clerk that it was hardly worth while coming so far. “We might have done with a worse ‘un,” was his reply.
That reminds me of another clerk who apologised to a church dignitary who had been summoned to take a service at a small country church. The form of the apology was not quite happily expressed. He said, “I am sorry, sir, to have brought such a gentleman as you to this poor place. A worse would have done, if we had only known where to find him!”
The new vicar of D—- was calling upon an old parishioner, who said to him: “Ah! I’ve seen mony changes. I’ve seen four vicars of D—-. First there was Canon G—-, then there was Mr. T—-, who’s now a bishop, and then Mr. F—- came, and now you’ve coom, and we’ve wossened (worsened) every toime.”
A clerk named Turner, who officiated at Alnwick, was a great character, and in spite of his odd ways was esteemed for his genuine worth and fidelity to the three vicars under whom he served. He looked upon the church and parish as his own, and used to say that he had trained many “kewrats” in their duties. His responses in the Psalms were often startling. Instead of “The Lord setteth up the meek,” he would say, “The Lord sitteth upon the meek.” “The great leviathan” he rendered “the great live thing.” “Caterpillars innumerable” he pronounced “caterpilliars innumerabble.” When a funeral was late he scolded the bearers at the churchyard gate.
At Wimborne Minster, Dorset, there used to be three priest vicars, and each of them had a clerk. It was the custom for each of the priest vicars to take the services for a week in rotation, and the first lesson was always read by “the clerk of the week,” as he was called. On Sundays, when there was a celebration of the Holy Communion, the “clerk of the week” advanced to the lectern after the sermon was finished, and said, “All who wish to receive the Holy Communion, draw near.” These words, in the case of one worthy, named David Butler, were always spoken in a high-pitched, drawling voice, and finished off with a kick to the rearwards of the right leg.
The old clerk at Woodmancote, near Henfield, Sussex, was a very important person. There was never any committee meeting but he attended. So much so, that one day in church leading the singing and music with voice and flute, when it came to the “Gloria” he sang loudly, “As it was in the committee meeting, is now, and ever shall be …”
An acquaintance remarked to him afterwards that the last meeting he attended must have been a rather long one!
A story is told of the clerk at West Dean, near Alfriston, Sussex. Starting the first line of the Psalm or hymn, he found that he could not see owing to the failing light on a dark wintry afternoon. So he said, “My eyes are dim, I canna see,” at which the congregation, composed of ignorant labourers, sang after him the _same_ words. The clerk was wroth, and cried out, “Tarnation fools you all must be.” Here again the congregation sang the same words after the clerk.
Strange times, strange manners!
A writer in the _Spectator_ tells of a clerk who, like many of his fellows, used to convert “leviathan” into “that girt livin’ thing,” thus letting loose before his hearers’ imagination a whole travelling menagerie, from which each could select the beast which most struck his fancy. This clerk was a picturesque personality, although, unlike his predecessor, he had discarded top-boots and cords for Sunday wear in favour of black broadcloth. When not engaged in marrying or burying one of his flock, he fetched and carried for the neighbours from the adjacent country town, or sold herrings and oranges (what mysterious affinity is there between these two dissimilar edibles that they are invariably hawked in company?) from door to door. During harvest he rang the morning “leazing bell” to start the gleaners to the fields, and every night he tolled the curfew, by which the villagers set their clocks. He it was who, when the sermon was ended, strode with dignity from his box on the “lower deck” down the aisle to the belfry, and pulled the “dishing-up bell” to let home-keeping mothers know that hungry husbands and sons were set free. Folks in those days were less easily fatigued than they are now. Services were longer, the preacher’s “leanings to mercy” were less marked, and congregations counted themselves ill-used if they broke up under the two hours. The boys stood in wholesome awe of the clerk, as well they might, for his eye was keen and his stick far-reaching. Moreover, no fear of man prevented him from applying the latter with effect to the heads of slumberers during divine service. By way of retaliation the youths, when opportunity occurred, would tie the cord of the “tinkler” to the weathercock, and the parish on a stormy night would be startled by the sound of ghostly, fitful ting-tangs. To Sunday blows the clerk, who was afflicted with rheumatism, added weekday anathemas as he climbed the steep ascent to the bell-chamber and the yet steeper ladder that gave access to the leads of the tower. The perpetual hostility that reigned between discipliner and disciplined bred no ill will on either side. “Boys must be boys” and “He’s paid for lookin’ arter things” were the arguments whereby the antagonists testified their mutual respect, in both of which the parents concurred; and his severity did not cost the old man a penny when he made his Easter rounds to collect the “sweepings.” It may, perhaps, be well to explain that the “sweepings” consisted of an annual sum of threepence which every householder contributed towards the cleaning of the church, and which represented a large part of the clerk’s salary[84].
[Footnote 84: _Spectator_, 14 October, 1905.]
The Rev. C.C. Prichard recollects a curious old character at Churchdown, near Gloucester, commonly pronounced “Chosen” in those days.
This old clerk was only absent one Sunday from “Chosen” Church, and then he was lent to the neighbouring church of Leckhampton. Instead of the response “And make Thy chosen people joyful,” mindful of his change of locality he gave out with a strong nasal twang, “And make Thy Leck’ampton people joyful.” The Psalms were somewhat a trouble to him, and to the congregation too. One verse he rendered “Like a paycock in a wild-dook’s nest, and a howl in the dessert, even so be I.” He was a thoroughly good old man, and brought up a large family very respectably.
I remember the old clerk, James Ingham, of Whalley Church, Lancashire. It is a grand old church, full of old dark oak square pews, and the clerk was in keeping with his surroundings. He was a humorous character, and had a splendid deep bass voice. He used to show people over the ruined abbey, and his imagination supplied the place of accurate historical information. Some American visitors asked him what a certain path was used for. “Well, marm,” said James, “it’s onsartin: but they do say the monks and nuns used to walk up and down this ‘ere path, arm-in-arm, of a summer arternoon.”
It is recorded of one Thomas Atkins, clerk of Chillenden Church, Kent, that he used to leave his reading-desk at the commencement of the General Thanksgiving and proceed to the west gallery, where he gave out the hymn and sang a duet with the village cobbler, in which the congregation joined as best they could. He walked very slowly down the church, and said the Amen at the end of the Thanksgiving wherever he happened to be, and that was generally half-way up the gallery stairs, whence his feeble voice, with a good _tremolo_, used to sound like the distant baaing of a sheep. It was a strange and curious performance.
Miss Rawnsley, of Raithby Hall, Spilsby, gives some delightful reminiscences of a most original specimen of the race of clerks, old Haw, who officiated at Halton Holgate, Lincolnshire. He was a curious mixture of worldly wisdom and strong religious feeling. The former was exemplified by his greeting to a cousin of my correspondent, just returned from his ordination.
He said, “Now, Mr. Hardwick, remember thou must creep an’ crawl along the ‘edge bottoms, and then tha’ill make thee a bishop.”
He was a strong advocate of Fasting Communion. No one ever knew whence he derived his strong views on the subject. The rector never taught it. Probably his ideas were derived from some long lingering tradition. When over seventy years of age he set out fasting to walk six miles to attend a late celebration at a distant church on the occasion of its consecration. Nothing would ever induce him to break his fast before communicating; and on this occasion he was picked up in a dead faint, his journey being only half completed.
On Wednesdays and Fridays he always went into the church at eleven o’clock and said the Litany aloud. When asked his reason, he said, “I’ve gotten an ungodly wife and two ungodly bairns to pray for, sir.” He once asked one of the rector’s daughters to help him in the _Parody_ of the Psalms he was making; and on another occasion requested to have the old altar-cloth, which had just been replaced by a new one, “to make a slop to dig the graves in, and no sacrilege neither.”
At Sutton Maddock, Shropshire, there was a clerk who used to read “_Pe_-li-_can_ in the wilderness,” and the usual “_Howl_ in the _De_sart,” and “Teach the _Se_nators wisdom,” and when the Litany was said on Wednesdays and Fridays declared that it was not in his Prayer Book though he took part in it every Sunday. When a kind lady, Miss Barnfield, expressed a wish that his wife would get better, he replied, “I hope her will or _summat_.”
At Claverley, in the same county, on one Sunday, the rector told the clerk to give notice that there would be no service that afternoon, adding _sotto voce_, “I am going to dine at the Paper Mill.” He was rather disgusted when the clerk announced, “There will be no Diving Service this arternoon, the Parson is going to dine at the Peaper Mill.” The clerk was no respecter of persons, and once marched up to the rector’s wife in church and told her to keep her eyes from beholding vanity.
The Rev. F.A. Davis tells me of a story of an illiterate clerk who served in a Wiltshire church, where a cousin of my informant was vicar. A London clergyman, who had never preached or been in a country church before, came to take the duty. He was anxious to find out if the people listened or understood sermons. His Sunday morning discourse was based on the text St. Mark v. 1-17, containing the account of the healing of the demoniacally possessed persons at Gadara, and the destruction of the herd of swine. On the Monday he asked the clerk if he understood the sermon. The clerk replied somewhat doubtfully, “Yes.” “But is there anything you do not quite understand?” said the clergyman; “I shall be only too glad to explain anything I can, so as to help you.” After a good deal of scratching the back of his head and much hesitating, the clerk replied, “Who paid for them pigs?”
[Illustration: WILLIAM HINTON, A WILTSHIRE WORTHY DRAWN BY THE REV. JULIAN CHARLES YOUNG]
Many examples I have given of the dry humour of old clerks, which is sometimes rather disconcerting. A stranger was taking the duty in a church, and after service made a few remarks about the weather, asserting that it promised to be a fine day for the haymaking to-morrow. “Ah, sir,” replied the clerk, “they do say that the hypocrites can discern the face of the sky.”
The Rev. Julian Charles Young, rector of Ilmington, in his _Memoir of Charles Mayne Young, Tragedian_, published in 1871, speaks of the race of parish clerks who flourished in Wiltshire in the first half of the last century. Instead of a nice discrimination being exercised in the choice of a clerk, it seems to have been the rule to select the sorriest driveller that could be found–some “lean and slippered pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch at side,”
“triumphant over time,
And over tune, and over rhyme”–
who by his snivelling enunciation of the responses and his nasal drawlings of the A–mens, was sure to provoke the risibility of his hearers. Mr. Young’s own clerk was, however, a very worthy man, of such lofty aspirations and of such blameless purity of life, that in making him Nature made the very ideal of a village clerk and schoolmaster, and then “broke the mould.” His grave yet kindly countenance, his well-proportioned limbs encased in breeches and gaiters of corded kerseymere, and the natural dignity of his carriage, combined “to give the world assurance of” a bishop rather than a clerk. It needed familiarity with his inner life to know how much simpleness of purpose and simplicity of mind and contentment and piety lay hid under a pompous exterior and a phraseology somewhat stilted.
His name was William Hinton, and he dwelt in a small whitewashed cottage which, by virtue of his situation as schoolmaster, he enjoyed rent free. It stood in the heart of a small but well-stocked kitchen garden. His salary was L40 per annum, and on this, with perhaps L5 a year more derived from church fees, he brought up five children in the greatest respectability, all of whom did well in life. They regarded their father with absolute veneration. By the side of the labourer who only knew what he had taught him, or of the farmer who knew less, he was a giant among pygmies–a Triton among minnows.
When Mr. Young went to the village, with the exception of a Bible, a Prayer Book, a random tract or two, and a _Moore’s Almanac_, there was scarcely a book to be found in it. The rector kindly allowed his clerk the run of his well-stocked library. Hinton devoured the books greedily. So receptive and imitative was his intellect that his conversation, his deportment, even his spirit, became imbued with the individuality of the author whose writings he had been studying. After reading Dr. Johnson’s works his conversation became sententious and dogmatic. _Lord Chesterfield’s Letters_ produced an airiness and jauntiness that were quite foreign to his nature. His favourite authors were Jeremy Taylor, Bacon, and Milton. After many months reverential communion with these Goliaths of literature he became pensive and contemplative, and his manner more chastened and severe. The secluded village in which he dwelt had been his birthplace, and there he remained to the day of his death. He knew nothing of the outer world, and the rector found his intercourse with a man so original, fresh, and untainted a real pleasure. He was physically timid, and the account of a voyage across the Channel or a journey by coach filled him with dread. One day he said to Mr. Young, “Am I, reverend sir, to understand that you voluntarily trust your perishable body to the outside of a vehicle, of the soundness of which you know nothing, and suffer yourself to be drawn to and fro by four strange animals, of whose temper you are ignorant, and are willing to be driven by a coachman of whose capacity and sobriety you are uninformed?” On being assured that such was the case, he concluded that “the love of risk and adventure must be a very widely-spread instinct, seeing that so many people are ready to expose themselves to such fearful casualties.” He was grateful to think that he had never been exposed to such terrific hazards. What the worthy clerk would have said concerning the risks of motoring somewhat baffles imagination.
When just before the opening of the Great Western Railway line the Company ran a coach through the village from Bath to Swindon, the clerk witnessed with his own eyes the dangers of travelling. The school children were marshalled in line to welcome the coach, bouquets of laurestina and chrysanthema were ready to be bestowed on the passengers, the church bells rang gaily, when after long waiting the cheery notes of the key-bugle sounded the familiar strains of “Sodger Laddie,” and the steaming steeds hove in sight, an accident occurred. At a sharp turn just opposite the clerk’s house the swaying coach overturned, and the outside passengers were thrown into the midst of his much-prized ash-leaf kidneys. The clerk fled precipitately to the extreme borders of his domain, and afterwards said to the rector, “Ah, sir, was I right in saying I would never enter such a dangerous carriage as a four-horse coach? I assure you I was not the least surprised. It was just what I expected.”
When the first railway train passed through the village he was overwhelmed with emotion at the sight. He fell prostrate on the bank as if struck by a thunder-bolt. When he stood up his brain reeled, he was speechless, and stood aghast, unutterable amazement stamped upon his face. In the tone of a Jeremiah he at length gasped out, “Well, sir, what a sight to have seen: but one I never care to see again! How awful! I tremble to think of it! I don’t know what to compare it to, unless it be to a messenger despatched from the infernal regions with a commission to spread desolation and destruction over the fair land. How much longer shall knowledge be allowed to go on increasing?”
The rector taught the clerk how to play chess, to which game he took eagerly, and taught it to the village youths. They played it on half-holidays in winter and became engrossed in it, manufacturing chess-boards out of old book-covers and carving very creditable chessmen out of bits of wood. When he was playing with his rector one evening he lost his queen and at once resigned, saying, “I consider, reverend sir, that chess without a queen is like life without a female.”
Hinton knew not a word of Latin, but he had a pedantic pleasure in introducing it whenever he could. Genders were ever a mystery to him, though with the help of a dictionary he would often substitute a Latin for an English word. Thus he used the signatures “Gulielmus Hintoniensis, Rusticus Sacrista,” and when writing to Mrs. Young he always addressed her as “Charus Domina.” On this lady’s return after a long absence, the clerk wrote in large letters, “Gratus, gratus, optatus,” and dated his greeting, “Martius quinta, 1842.” A funeral notice was usually sent in doggerel.
The following letter was sent to the rector’s unmarried sister:
“_Januarius Prima_, 1840.
“CHARUS DOMINA,
“That the humble Sacrista should be still retained on the tablets of your memory is an unexpected pleasure. Your gift, as a criterion of your esteem, will be often looked at with delight, and be carefully preserved, as a memorial of your friendship; and for which I beg to return my sincere thanks. May the meridian sunshine of happiness brighten your days through the voyage of life; and may your soul be borne on the wings of seraphic angels to the realms of bliss eternal in the world to come is the sincere wish and fervent prayer of Charus Domina, your most obedient, most respectful, most obliged servant,
“GULIELMUS HINTONIENSIS,
“_Rusticus Sacrista_.
“GRATITUDE
“A gift from the virtuous, the fair, and the good, From the affluent to the humble and low, Is a favour so great, so obliging and kind, To acknowledge I scarcely know how.
I fain would express the sensations I feel, By imploring the blessing of Heaven
May be showered on the lovely, the amiable maid, Who this gift to Sacrista has given. May the choicest of husbands, the best of his kind, Be hers by the appointment of Heaven! And may sweet smiling infants as pledges of love To crown her connubium be given.”
The following is a characteristic note of this worthy clerk, which differs somewhat from the notices usually sent to vicars as reminders of approaching weddings:
“REV. SIR,
“I hope it has not escaped your memory that the young couple at Clack are hoping to offer incense at the shrine of Venus this morning at the hour of ten. I anticipate the bridegrooms’s anxiety.
“RUSTICUS SACRISTA.”
He was somewhat curious on the subject of fashionable ladies’ dresses, and once asked the rector “in what guise feminine respectability usually appeared at an evening party?” When a low dress was described to him, he blushed and shivered and exclaimed, “Then methinks, sir, there must be revelations of much which modesty would gladly veil.” He was terribly overcome on one occasion when he met in the rector’s drawing-room one evening some ladies who were attired, as any other gentlewomen would be, in low gowns.
William Hinton was, in spite of his air of importance and his inflated phraseology, a simple, single-minded, humble soul. When the rector visited him on his death-bed, he greeted Mr. Young with as much serenity of manner as if he had been only going on a journey to a far country for which he had long been preparing. “Well, reverend and dear sir. Here we are, you see! come to the nightcap scene at last! Doubtless you can discern that I am dying. I am not afraid to die. I wish your prayers…. I say I am not afraid to die, and you know why. Because I know in whom I have believed; and I am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day.” A little later he said, “Thanks, reverend sir! Thanks for much goodwill! Thanks for much happy intercourse! For nearly seven years we have been friends here. I trust we shall be still better friends hereafter. I shall not see you again on this side Jordan. I fear not to cross over. Good-bye. My Joshua beckons me. The Promised Land is in sight.”
This worthy and much-mourned clerk was buried on 5 July, 1843.
CHAPTER XIX
THE CLERK AND THE LAW
The parish clerk is so important a person that divers laws have been framed relating to his office. His appointment, his rights, his dismissal are so closely regulated by law that incumbents and churchwardens have to be very careful lest they in any way transgress the legal enactments and judgments of the courts. It is not an easy matter to dismiss an undesirable clerk: it is almost as difficult as to disturb the parson’s freehold; and unless the clerk be found guilty of grievous faults, he may laugh to scorn the malice of his enemies and retain his office while life lasts.
It may be useful, therefore, to devote a chapter to the laws relating to parish clerks–a chapter which some of my readers who have no liking for legal technicalities can well afford to skip.
As regards his qualifications the clerk must be at least twenty years of age, and known to the parson as a man of honest conversation, and sufficient for his reading, writing, and for his competent skill in singing, “if it may be[85].” The visitation articles of the seventeenth century frequently inquire whether the clerk be of the age of twenty years at least.
[Footnote 85: Canon 91 (1603).]
The method of his appointment has caused much disputing. With whom does the appointment rest? In former times the parish clerk was always nominated by the incumbent both by common law and the custom of the realm. This is borne out by the constitution of Archbishop Boniface and the 91st Canon, which states that “No parish clerk upon any vacation shall be chosen within the city of London or elsewhere, but by the parson or vicar: or where there is no parson or vicar, by the minister of that place for the time being; which choice shall be signified by the said minister, vicar or parson, to the parishioners the next Sunday following, in the time of Divine Service.”
But this arrangement has often been the subject of dispute between the parson and his flock as to the right of the former to appoint the clerk. In pre-Reformation times there was a diversity of practice, some parishioners claiming the right to elect the clerk, as they provided the offerings by which he lived. A terrible scene occurred in the fourteenth century at one church. The parishioners appointed a clerk, and the rector selected another. The rector was celebrating Mass, assisted by his clerk, when the people’s candidate approached the altar and nearly murdered his rival, so that blood was shed in the sanctuary.
Custom in many churches sanctioned the right of the parishioners, who sometimes neglected to exercise it, and the choice of clerk was left to the vicar. The visitations in the time of Elizabeth show that the people were expected to appoint to the office, but the episcopal inquiries also demonstrate that the parson or vicar could exercise a veto, and that no one could be chosen without his goodwill and consent.
The canon of 1603 was an attempt to change this variety of usage, but such is the force of custom that many decisions of the spiritual courts have been against the canon and in favour of accustomed usage when such could be proved. It was so in the case of _Cundict_ v. _Plomer_ (8 Jac. I)[86], and in _Jermyn’s Case_ (21 Jac. I).
[Footnote 86: _Ecclesiastical Law_, Sir R. Phillimore, p. 1901.]
At the present time such disputes with regard to the appointment of clerks are unlikely to arise. They are usually elected to their office by the vestry, and the person recommended by the vicar is generally appointed. Indeed, by the Act 7 & 8 Victoria, c. 49, “for better regulating the office of Lecturers and Parish Clerks,” it is provided that when the appointment is by others than the parson, it is to be subject to the approval of the parson. Owing to the difficulty of dismissing a clerk, to which I shall presently refer, it is not unusual to appoint a gentleman or farmer to the office, and to nominate a deputy to discharge the actual duties. If we may look forward to a revival of the office and to a restoration of its ancient dignity and importance, it might be possible for the more highly educated man to perform the chief functions, the reading the lessons and epistle, serving at the altar, and other like duties, while his deputy could perform the more menial functions, opening the church, ringing the bell, digging graves, if there be no sexton, and the like.
It is not absolutely necessary that the clerk, after having been chosen and appointed, should be licensed by the ordinary, but this is not unusual; and when licensed he is sworn to obey the incumbent of the parish[87].
[Footnote 87: _Ibid._, 1902.]
We have recorded some of the perquisites, fees and wages, which the clerk of ancient times was accustomed to receive when he had been duly appointed. No longer does he receive accustomed alms by reason of his office of _aquaebajalus_. No longer does he derive profit from bearing the holy loaf; and the cakes and eggs at Easter, and certain sheaves at harvest-tide, are perquisites of the past.
The following were the accustomed wages of the clerk at Rempstone in the year 1629[88]:
[Footnote 88: _The Clerks’ Book_, Dr. Wickham Legg, lv.]
“22nd November, 1629.
“The wages of the Clarke of the Parish Church of Rempstone. At Easter yearely he is to have of every Husbandman one pennie for every yard land he hath in occupation. And of every Cottager two pence.
“Furthermore he is to have for every yard land one peche of Barley of the Husbandman yearely.
“Egges at Easter by Courtesie.
“For every marriage two pence. And at the churching of a woman his dinner.
“The said Barley is to be payed between Christmasse and the Feast of the Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary.”
Clerk’s Ales have vanished, too, together with the cakes and eggs, but his fees remain, and marriage bells and funeral knells, christenings and churchings bring to him the accustomed dues and offerings. Tables of Fees hang in most churches. It is important to have them in order that no dispute may arise. The following table appears in the parish books of Salehurst, Sussex, and is curious and interesting:
“April 18, 1597.
“Memorandum that the duties for Churchinge of women in the parishe of Salehurst is unto the minister ix d. b. and unto the Clarke ij d.
“Item the due unto the minister for a marriadge is xxj d. And unto the Clarke ij d. the Banes, and iiij d. the marriadge.
“Item due for burialls as followeth To the Minister in the Chancell . . xiii s. iiij d. To the Clarke in the Chancell . . vi s. viiij d. To the Parish in the Church . . . vi s. viii d. To the Clarke in the Church . . . v s. o d. To the Clarke in the churchyard for great coffins . . . . . . . ii s. vi d. For great Corses uncoffined . . . ii s. o d. For Chrisomers and such like coffined . i s. iiii d. And uncoffined . . . . . xij d. For tolling the passing bell and houre . i s. For ringing the sermon bell an houre . i s. 0 d. To the Clarke for carrying the beere . iiij d. If it be fetched . . . . . ij d.
“Item for funerals the Minister is to have the mourning pullpit Cloth and the Clarke the herst Cloth.
“Item the Minister hathe ever chosen the parishe Clarke and one of the Churchwardens and bothe the Sydemen.
“Item if they bring a beere or poles with the corps the Clarke is to have them.
“If any Corps goe out of the parish they are to pay double dutyes and to have leave.
“If any Corps come out of another parish to be buryed here, they are to pay double dutyes besides breakinge the ground; which is xiij s. 4 d. in the church, and vi s. viii d. in the churchyard.
“For marryage by licence double fees both to the Minister and Clarke[89].”
[Footnote 89: _Sussex Archaeological Collections_, 1873, vol. xxv. p. 154.]
In addition to the fees to which the clerk is entitled by long-established custom, he receives wages, which he can recover by law if he be unjustly deprived of them. Churchwardens who in the old days neglected to levy a church rate in order to pay the expenses of the parish and the salary of the clerk, have been compelled by law to do so, in order to satisfy the clerk’s claims.
The wages which he received varied considerably. The churchwardens’ accounts reveal the amounts paid the holders of the office at different periods. At St. Mary’s, Reading, there are the items in 1557:
“Imprimis the Rent of the Clerke’s howse . . . . . . vi s. viii d.”
“Paid to Marshall (the clerk) for parcell of his wages that he was unpaide . . v s.”
In 1561 the clerk’s wages were 40 s., in 1586 only 20 s. At St. Giles’s, Reading, in 1520, he received 26 s. 8 d., as the following entry shows:
“Paid to Harry Water Clerk for his wage for a yere ended at thannacon
(the Annunciation) of Our Lady. xxvi s. viii.”
The clerk at St. Lawrence, Reading, received 20 s. for his services in 1547. Owing to the decrease in the value of money the wages gradually rose in town churches, but in the eighteenth century in many country places 10 s. was deemed sufficient. The sum of L10 is not an unusual wage at the present time for a village clerk.
The dismissal of a parish clerk was a somewhat difficult and dangerous task. In the eyes of the law he is no menial servant–no labourer who can be discharged if he fail to please his master. The law regards him as an officer for life, and one who has a freehold in his place. Sixty years ago no ecclesiastical court could deprive him of his office, but he could be censured for his faults and misdemeanours, though not discharged. Several cases have appeared in the law courts which have decided that as long as a clerk behaves himself well, he has a good right and title to continue in his office. Thus in _Rex_ v. _Erasmus Warren_ (16 Geo. III) it was shown that the clerk became bankrupt, had been guilty of many omissions in his office, was actually in prison at the time of his amoval, and had appointed a deputy who was totally unfit for the office. Against which it was insisted that the office of parish clerk was a temporal office during life, that the parson could not remove him, and that he had a right to appoint a deputy. One of the judges stated that though the minister might have power of removing the clerk on a good and sufficient cause, he could never be the sole judge and remove him at pleasure, without being subject to the control of the court. No misbehaviour of consequence was proved against him, and the clerk was restored to his office.
In a more recent case the clerk had conducted himself on several occasions by designedly irreverent and ridiculous behaviour in his performance of his duty. He had appeared in church drunk, and had indecently disturbed the congregation during the administration of Holy Communion. He had been repeatedly reproved by the vicar, and finally removed from his office. But the court decided that because the clerk had not been summoned to answer for his conduct before his removal, a mandamus should be issued for his restoration to his office[90].
[Footnote 90: _Ecclesiastical Law_, Sir R. Phillimore, p. 1907.]
No deputy clerk when removed can claim to be restored. It will be gathered, therefore, that an incumbent is compelled by law to restore a clerk removed by him without just cause, that the justice of the cause is not determined in the law courts by an _ex-parte_ statement of the incumbent, and that an accused clerk must have an opportunity of answering the charges made against him. If a man performs the duties of the office for one year he gains a settlement, and cannot afterwards be removed without just cause.
An important Act was passed in 1844, to which I have already referred, for the better regulating the office of lecturers and parish clerks. Sections 5 and 6 of this Act bear directly on the method of removal of a clerk who may be guilty of neglect or misbehaviour. I will endeavour to divest the wording of the Act from legal technicalities, and write it in “plain English.”
If a complaint is made to the archdeacon, or other ordinary, with regard to the misconduct of a clerk, stating that he is an unfit and improper person to hold that office, the archdeacon may summon the clerk and call witnesses who shall be able to give evidence or information with regard to the charges made. He can examine these witnesses upon oath, and hear and determine the truth of the accusations which have been made against the clerk. If he should find these charges proved he may suspend or remove the offender from his office, and give a certificate under his hand and seal to the incumbent, declaring the office vacant, which certificate should be affixed to the door of the church. Then another person may be elected or appointed to the vacant office: “Provided always, that the exercise of such office by a sufficient deputy who shall duly and faithfully perform the duties thereof, and in all respects well and properly demean himself, shall not be deemed a wilful neglect of his office on the part of such church clerk, chapel clerk, or parish clerk, so as to render him liable, for such cause alone, to be suspended or removed therefrom.”
A special section of the Act deals with such possessions as clerks’ houses, buildings, lands or premises, held by a clerk by virtue of his office. If, when deprived of his office, he should refuse to give up such buildings or possessions, the matter must be brought before the bishop of the diocese, who shall summon the clerk to appear before him. If he fail to appear, or if the bishop should decide against him, the bishop shall grant a certificate of the facts to the person or persons entitled to the possession of the land or premises, who may thereupon go before a justice of the peace. The magistrate shall then issue his warrant to the constables to expel the clerk from the premises, and to hand them over to the rightful owners, the cost of executing the warrant being levied upon the goods and chattels of the expelled clerk. If this cost should be disputed, it shall be determined by the magistrate. Happily few cases arise, but perhaps it is well to know the procedure which the law lays down for the carrying out of such troublesome matters.
The law also takes cognizance of the humbler office of sexton, the duties of which are usually combined in country places with those of the parish clerk. The sexton is, of course, the sacristan, the keeper of the holy things relating to divine worship, and seems to correspond with the _ostarius_ in the Roman Church. His duties consist in the care of the church, the vestments and vessels, in keeping the church clean, in ringing the bells, in opening and closing the doors for divine service, and to these the task of digging graves and the care of the churchyard are also added. He is appointed by the churchwardens if his duties be confined to the church, but if he is employed in the churchyard the appointment is vested in the rector. If his duties embrace the care of both church and churchyard, he should be appointed by the churchwardens and incumbent jointly[91].
[Footnote 91: _Ecclesiastical Law_, p. 1914.]
Many cases have come before the law courts relating to sextons and their election and appointment. He does not usually hold the same fixity of tenure as the parish clerk, he being a servant of the parish rather than an officer or one that has a freehold in his place; but in some cases a sexton has determined his right to hold the office for life, and gained a mandamus from the court to be restored to his position after having been removed by the churchwardens.
The law has also decided that women may be appointed sextons.
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