The Parish Clerk Part 15

Nor less the sport, when Easter sees The daisy spring to deck her leas; Then, claim'd as dues by Mother Church, I pluck the cackler from the perch; Or, in its place, the shilling clasp From grumbling dame's slow opening grasp.

But, Visitation Day! 'tis thine Best to deserve my native line.

Great day! the purest, brightest gem That decks the fair year's diadem.

Grand day! that sees me costless dine And costless quaff the rosy wine, Till seven churchwardens doubled seem, And doubled every taper's gleam; And I triumphant over time, And over tune, and over rhyme, Call'd by the gay convivial throng, Lead, in full glee, the choral song!"

The writers of doggerel verses have been numerous. The following is a somewhat famous composition which has been kindly sent to me by various correspondents. My father used to tell us the rhymes when we were children, and they have evidently become notorious. The clerk who composed them lived in Somersetshire[67], and when the Lord Bishop of the Diocese came to visit his church, he thought that such an occasion ought not to be pa.s.sed over without a fitting tribute to the distinguished prelate. He therefore composed a new and revised version of Tate and Brady's metrical rendering of Psalm lxvii., and announced his production after this manner:

"Let us zing to the Praze an' Glory of G.o.d part of the zixty-zeventh Zalm; zspeshul varshun zspesh'ly 'dapted vur t'cazshun.

"W'y 'op ye zo ye little 'ills?

And what var du 'ee zskip?

Is it a'cause ter prach too we Is c.u.m'd me Lord Biship?

"W'y zskip ye zo ye little 'ills?

An' whot var du 'ee 'op?

Is it a'cause to prach too we Is c.u.m'd me Lord Bishop?

"Then let us awl arize an' zing, An' let us awl stric up, An' zing a glawrious zong uv praze; An' bless me Lord Bishup."

[Footnote 67: Another correspondent states that the incident occurred at Bradford-on-Avon in 1806. Mr. Francis Bevan remembers hearing a similar version at Dover about sixty years ago. Can it be that these various clerks were plagiarists?]

A somewhat similar effusion was composed by Eldad Holland, parish clerk of Christ Church, Kilbrogan parish, Bandon, County Cork, in Ireland.

This church was built in 1610, and has the reputation of being the first edifice erected in Ireland for the use of the Church of Ireland after the Reformation. Bandon was originally colonised by English settlers in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and for a long time was a noted stronghold of Protestantism. This fact may throw light upon the opinions and sentiments of Master Holland, an original character, whose tombstone records that "he departed this life ye 29th day of 7ber 1722." When the news of the victory of William III reached Bandon there were great rejoicings, and Eldad paraphrased a portion of the morning service in honour of the occasion. After the first lesson he gave out the following notice:

"Let us sing to the praise and glory of William, a psalm of my own composing:

"William is come home, come home, William home is come, And now let us in his praise Sing a _Te Deum_."

He then continued: "We praise thee, O William! we acknowledge thee to be our king!" adding with an impressive shake of the head, "And faith, a good right we have, for it was he who saved us from bra.s.s money, wooden shoes and Popery." He then resumed the old version, and reverently continued it to the end[68].

[Footnote 68: This information was kindly sent to me by Mr. Robert Clarke, of Castle Eden, Durham, who states that he derived the information from _The History of Bandon_, by George Bennett (1869). My father used to repeat the following version:

"King William is come home, Come home King William is come; So let us then together sing A hymn that's called _Te D'um_."

I am not sure which version is the better poetry! The latter corresponds with the version composed by Wesley's clerk at Epworth, old John; so Clarke in his memoirs of the Wesley family records.]

In a parish in North Devon[69] there was a poetical clerk who had great reverence for Bishop Henry Phillpotts, and on giving out the hymn he proclaimed his regard in this form: "Let us sing to the glory of G.o.d, and of the Lord Bishop of Exeter." On one occasion his lordship held a confirmation in the church on 5 November, when it is said the clerk gave out the Psalm in the usual way, adding, "in a stave of my own composing":

"This is the day that was the night When the Papists did conspire To blow up the King and Parliament House With Gundy-powdy-ire."

[Footnote 69: My kind correspondent, the Rev. J.B. Hughes, abstains from mentioning the name of the parish.]

My informant cannot vouch for the truth of this story, but he can for the fact that when Bishop Phillpotts on another occasion visited the church his lordship was surprised to hear the clerk give out at the end of the service, "Let us sing in honour of his lordship, 'G.o.d save the King.'" The bishop rose somewhat hastily, saying to his chaplain, "Come along, Barnes; we shall have 'Rule, Britannia!' next."

Cuthbert Bede tells the story of a poetical clerk who was much aggrieved because some disagreeable and naughty folk had maliciously damaged his garden fence. On the next Sunday he gave out "a stave of his own composing":

"Oh, Lord, how doth the wicked man; They increases more and more; They break the posts, likewise the rails Around this poor clerk's door."

He almost deserved his fate for barbarously mutilating a metrical Psalm, and was evidently a proper victim of poetical justice.

A Devonshire clerk wrote the following n.o.ble effort:--

"Mount Edgc.u.mbe is a pleasant place Right o'er agenst the Ham-o-aze, Where ships do ride at anchor, To guard us agin our foes. Amen."

Besides writing "hymns of his own composing," the parish clerk often used to give vent to his poetical talents in the production of epitaphs.

The occupation of writing epitaphs must have been a lucrative one, and the effusions recording the numerous virtues of the deceased are quaint and curious. Well might a modern English child ask her mother after hearing these records read to her, "Where were all the bad people buried?" Learned scholars and abbots applied their talents to the production of the Latin verses inscribed on old bra.s.s memorials of the dead, and clever ladies like Dame Elizabeth Hobby sometimes wrote them and appended their names to their compositions. In later times this task seems to have been often undertaken by the parish clerk with not altogether satisfactory results, though inc.u.mbents and great poets, among whom may be enumerated Pope and Byron, sometimes wrote memorials of their friends. But the clerk was usually responsible for these inscriptions. Master John Hopkins, clerk at one of the churches at Salisbury at the end of the eighteenth century, issued an advertis.e.m.e.nt of his various accomplishments which ran thus:

"John Hopkins, parish clerk and undertaker, sells epitaphs of all sorts and prices. Shaves neat, and plays the ba.s.soon.

Teeth drawn, and the Salisbury Journal read gratis every Sunday morning at eight. A school for psalmody every Thursday evening, when my son, born blind, will play the fiddle.

Specimen epitaph on my wife:

My wife ten years, not much to my ease, But now she is dead, in caelo quies.

Great variety to be seen within. Your humble servant, John Hopkins."

Poor David Diggs, the hero of Hewett's story of _The Parish Clerk_, used to write epitaphs in strange and curious English. Just before his death he put a small piece of paper into the hands of the clergyman of the parish, and whispered a request that its contents might be attended to.

When the clergyman afterwards read the paper he found the following epitaph, which was duly inscribed on the clerk's grave:

"Reader Don't stop nor shed no tears For I was parish clerk For 60 years; If I lived on I could not now as Then Say to the Parson's Prases A loud Amen."

A very worthy poetical clerk was John Bennet, shoemaker, of Woodstock. A long account of him appears in the _Lives of Ill.u.s.trious Shoemakers_, written by W.E. Winks. He inherited the office of parish clerk from his father, and with it some degree of musical taste. In the preface to his poems he wrote: "Witness my early acquaintance with the pious strains of Sternhold and Hopkins, under that melodious psalmodist my honoured Father, and your approved Parish Clerk." This is addressed to the Rev.

Thomas Warton, Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and sometime curate of Woodstock, to whose patronage and ready aid John Bennet was greatly indebted. Southey, who succeeded Warton in the Professorship, wrote that "This Woodstock shoemaker was chiefly indebted for the patronage which he received to Thomas Warton's good nature; for my predecessor was the best-hearted man that ever wore a great wig." Certainly the list of subscribers printed at the beginning of his early work is amazingly long. n.o.blemen, squires, parsons, great ladies, all rushed to secure the cobbler-clerk's poems, which were published in 1774. The poems consist mainly of simple rhymes or rustic themes, and are not without merit or humour. He is very modest and humble about his poetical powers, and tells that his reason for publishing his verses was "to enable the author to rear an infant offspring and to drive away all anxious solicitude from the breast of a most amiable wife." His humour is shown in the conclusion of his Dedication, where he wrote:

"I had proceeded thus far when I was called to measure a gentleman of a certain college for a pair of fashionable boots, and the gentleman having insisted on a perusal of what I was writing, told me that a dedication should be as laconic as the boots he had employed me to make; and then, taking up my pen, added this sc.r.a.p of Latin for a Heel-piece, as he called it, to my Dedication:

"_Jam satis est; ne me Crispini scrinia lippi Compila.s.se putes, vertum non amplius_."

The cobbler poet concludes his verses with the humorous lines:

"So may our cobler rise by friendly aid, Be happy and successful in his trade; His awl and pen with readiness be found, To make or keep our understandings sound."

Later in life John Bennet published another volume, ent.i.tled _Redemption_. It was dedicated to Dr. Mavor, rector of Woodstock. It is a n.o.ble poem, far exceeding in merit his first essay, and it is a remarkable and wonderful composition for a self-taught village shoemaker. The author-clerk died and was buried at Woodstock in 1803.

A fine character and graceful poet was Richard Furness[70], parish clerk of Dore, five miles from Shalfield, a secluded hamlet. He was then styled "The Poet of the Peak," of sonorous voice and clear of speech, the author of many poems, and factotum supreme of the village and neighbourhood. Two volumes of his poems have been published. He combined, like many of his order, the office of parish clerk with that of schoolmaster, his schoolroom being under the same roof as his house.

Thither crowds flocked. He was an immense favourite. The teacher of children, healer of all the lame and sick folk, the consoler and adviser of the troubled, he played an important part in the village life. His accomplishments were numerous. He could make a will, survey or convey an estate, reduce a dislocation, perform the functions of a parish clerk, lead a choir, and write an ode. This remarkable man was born at Eyam in 1791, the village so famous for the story of its plague, in an old house long held by his family. Over the door is carved:

R. 1615. F

[Footnote 70: _Biographical Sketches of Remarkable People_, by Spencer T. Hall.]

When a boy he was very fond of reading, and studied mathematics and poetry. _Don Quixote_ was his favourite romance. His father would not allow him to read at night, but the student could not be prevented from studying his beloved books. In order to prevent the light in his bedroom from being seen in other parts of the house, he placed a candle in a large box, knelt by its side, and with the lid half closed few rays of the glimmering taper could reach the window or door. When he grew to be a man he migrated to Dore, and there set up a school, and began that active life of which an admirable account is given by Dr. G. Calvert Holland in the introduction of _The Poetical Works of Richard Furness_, published in 1858. In addition to other duties he sometimes discharged clerical functions. The vicar of the parish of Dore, Mr. Parker, was somewhat old and infirm, and sometimes found it difficult to tramp over the high moors in winter to privately baptize a sick child. So he often sent his clerk to perform the duty. On dark and stormy nights Richard Furness used to tramp over moor and fell, through snow and rain to some lonely farm or moorland cottage in order to baptize some suffering infant. On one occasion he omitted to ascertain before commencing the service whether the child was a boy or a girl. Turning to the father in the midst of a prayer, when the question whether he ought to use _his_ or _her_ had to be decided, he inquired, "What s.e.x?" The father, an ignorant labourer, did not understand the meaning of the question. "Male or female?" asked the clerk. Still the father did not comprehend. At last the meaning of the query dawned upon his rustic intelligence, and he whispered, "It's a mon childt."

Thus does Richard Furness in his poems describe his many duties:

"I Richard Furness, schoolmaster, Dore, Keep parish books and pay the poor; Draw plans for buildings and indite Letters for those who cannot write; Make wills and recommend a proctor; Cure wounds, let blood with any doctor; Draw teeth, sing psalms, the hautboy play At chapel on each holy day; Paint sign-boards, cast names at command, Survey and plot estates of land: Collect at Easter, one in ten, And on the Sunday say Amen."

He wrote a poem ent.i.tled _Medicus Magus, or the Astrologer_, a droll story br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with quiet humour, folk-lore, philology and archaic lore. Also _The Ragbag_, which is dedicated to "John Bull, Esq." The style of his poetry was Johnsonian, or after the manner of Erasmus Darwin, a bard whom the present generation has forgotten, but whose _Botanic Garden_, published in 1825, is full of quaint plant-lore and cla.s.sical allusions, if it does not reach the highest form of poetic talent. Here is a poem by our clerkly poet on the Old Year's funeral:

"The clock in oblivion's mouldering tower By the raven's nest struck the midnight hour, And the ghosts of the seasons wept over the bier Of Old Time's last son--the departing year.