The Parish Clerk Part 25

One of them would carefully recite the Psalms for the coming Sunday within church or elsewhere during the week, and he read with proper feeling and good sense.

Another of the same little parish, well up in his Bible, once helped the very excellent clergyman at a baptism in a critical moment. "Name this child." "Zulphur." This was not a correct name. Another effort, "Sulphur." The clergyman was in difficulty. The clerk was equal to the occasion, for the parson was well up in his Bible too.

"Leah's handmaid," suggested the clerk. "Zilpah, I baptize thee," said the priest, and all was well.

In that church the few farmers who met to levy a poor-rate and do other parochial work insisted on doing so within the chancel rails, using the holy table as the writing-desk, and the a.s.signed reason for so doing was that, being apt to quarrel and dispute over parish matters, there would be no danger _at such a place_ as this of using profane language. All in the diocese of Oxford.

It was in the twenties that I must have seen old P.W. (the parish clerk) and two other men in the desk singing to "Hanover," with a certain apparent self-complacency in nice smock-frocks, "My soul, praise the Lord, speak good of His Name," etc. The little congregation listened with seeming contentment, and it is worth recording that the parson always preached in the surplice. I suppose Pusey was a boy at that time, but the custom in this church was not a novelty, whether right or wrong.

It was not the clerk's fault that the hour of service was hastened by some seventy minutes one afternoon, so that one or two invariably late worshippers were astounded to be driven backwards from the church by the congregation returning from service. But so it was. The really well-meaning kind-hearted parson was withal a keen sportsman and a worthy gentleman, and with his "long dogs" and man was on his horse and away for Illsley Downs race course to come off next day, and his dogs (they won) must not be fatigued. Old P.W., the clerk, reached a good age, an inoffensive man.

I was rather interested when residing in my parish in grand old Yorkshire to observe two steady-looking and rather elderly men, each aided by a strong walking-stick, coming to church with praiseworthy regularity and reverence. I found, on making their acquaintance, that they were brothers who had recently come into the parish, natives of "the Peak," or of the locality near the Peak, which was not many miles distant from my parish.

Since I heard from their lips the story which I am about to relate, I have heard it told, _mutatis mutandis_, as happening in sundry other parishes, until one rather doubts the genuineness of the record at all.

But as they recounted it it ran as follows, and I am sure they believed what they told me.

Some malicious person or persons unknown entered the church, and having seized the rather large typed Prayer Book used by the clerk, who was somewhat advanced in years, they observed that the words "the righteous shall flourish like" were the last words at the bottom of the page, whereupon they altered the next words on the top of the following page, and which were "the palm tree," into "a green bay horse"; and, the change being carefully made, the result on the Sunday following was that the well-meaning clerk, studiously uttering each word of his Prayer Book, found himself declaring very erroneous doctrine. "Hulloa," cried he; "I must hearken back. This'll never do." Now I cannot call to mind the name of the parish. It was not Chapel-in-the-Frith. Was it Mottram-in-Longdendale? I really cannot remember. But these two old men a.s.serted that thenceforward it became a saying, "I must hearken back, like the clerk of--."

I recollect preaching one weekday night (and people would crowd the churches on weekday evenings fifty years ago far more readily than they do now) at some wild place in Lancashire or Yorkshire, I think Lancashire. I was taken to see and stand upon a stepping stone outside the church, and close against the south wall of the sacred edifice, upon which almost every Sunday the clerk, as the people were leaving church, ascended and in a loud voice announced any matters concerning the parish which it appeared desirable to proclaim. In this way any intended sales were made known, the loss of sheep or cattle on the moors was announced, and almost anything appertaining to the secular welfare of the parishioners was made public. I do not state this to criticise it. It was in some degree a recognition of the charity which ought to realise the sympathy in each other's welfare which we ought all to display. It was in those primitive times and localities a specimen of the simplicity and well-meant interest in the welfare of the neighbour as well as of oneself, although perhaps the secular sometimes did much to extinguish the spiritual.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SUNDAY MORNING]

Few people now realise what a business it was to light up a church, say, eighty years ago. But the worthy old clerk, in a wig bestowed on him by the pious and aged patron, is hastening to illuminate his church with old-fashioned candles, in which he is aided not a little by his faithful wife, who, like Abraham's wife, regarded her husband as her lord and responded to the name of Sarah. The good old man--and he was a good old man--was perhaps a little bit "fl.u.s.tered and flurried," for the folk were gathering within the sacred temple, and W.L. was anxious to complete his task of lighting the loft, or gallery. "I say, Sally, hand us up a little taste of candle," cried her lord, and Sarah obeyed, and the illumination was soon complete.

But, really, few men "gave out" or announced a hymn with truer and more touching and devout feeling than did that old clerk. I am one of those who do not think that all the changes in the ministration of Church services are, after experience had, desirable. I think that in many instances the lay clerk ought to have been instructed in the performance of his duties, to the profit of all concerned. And I deem that this proceeding would have been a far wiser proceeding than any subst.i.tution of the man or his function. There is ancient authority for a clerk or clerks. It is wise to secure work to be attended to in the functions of divine service for as many laymen as possible, consistent with principle and propriety. W.L. was an old man when I saw him, but I can hear him now as with a pathos quite touching and teaching, because done so simply and naturally, he announced, singing:

"Salvation, what a glorious theme, How suited to our need.

The grace that rescues fallen man Is wonderful indeed."

And though he p.r.o.nounced the last word but one as if spelt "woonderful,"

I venture to say that the "giving out" of that verse by that aged clerk with his venerable wig and with a voice trembling a little by age, but more by natural emotion, was preferable to many modern modes of announcing a hymn.

It was common to say "Let us sing, to the praise and glory of G.o.d." It is common to be shocked, nowadays, by such an invitation. Are we as reverent now as then? Do we sing praises with understanding better? I think it is not so.

I knew a very respectable man, W.K., a tailor by trade, a well-conducted man, but who felt the importance of his office to an extent that made him nervous, or (what is as bad) made him fancy he was nervous. The church was capacious, and the population over two thousand.

A large three-decker, though the pulpit was at a right angle with the huge prayer-desk and the clerk's citadel below, well stained and varnished, formed an important portion of the furniture of the church, the whole structure, as we were reminded by large letters above the chancel arch, having been "Adorn'd and beautified 1814," the names of the churchwardens being also recorded. This clerk was observed frequently, during the service, to stoop down within his little "pew" as if to imbibe something. He was inquired of as to his strange proceeding, when he frankly stated that he felt the trials of his duties to be so great, that he always fortified himself with a little bottle containing some gin and some water, to which bottle he made frequent appeals during the often rather lengthy services. He had to proclaim the notices of vestry meetings of all kinds, as well as to give out the hymns; but what astonishes me is that he baptized many infants at their homes instead of the most excellent vicar, when circ.u.mstances made it difficult for the really good vicar to attend.

I saw him, one first Sunday in Lent, stand up on the edge of his square box or pew, and conduct a rather long consultation with the vicar, a very spiritually minded, excellent man, upon which we were put through the whole Commination Service which, though appointed for Ash Wednesday, was wholly neglected until it lengthened out the Sunday morning of the first _in_ but not _of_ Lent, and having nothing to do with the forty days of Lent.

The well-conducted man lived to a good age, and after his death a rather costly stained gla.s.s window was erected to his memory under the active influence of a new vicar. When privately engaged in church he wore his usual silk hat, though not approving of any one so behaving.

I recollect, in a large church in a large town, the clerk, arrayed (properly, I think) in a suitable black gown, giving out the hymn, in a tone to be regretted, but where the obvious remedy was not to dethrone the clerk, but rather to have just suggested the propriety of reading the entire verse, as well as of avoiding a tone lugubrious on the occasion.

It was Easter Day, and the hymn quite appropriate, but not so _rendered_ as the clerk heavily and drearily announced:

"The Lord is risen indeed, And are the tidings true?"

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

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

"Yes! we beheld the Saviour bleed, And saw Him rising too."

Within about ten miles nearer to Windsor Castle the clerk of a church in which not a few n.o.bility usually worshipped, was altogether at fault in his "H's," as he exhorted the people to sing, "The Heaster Im with the Allelujer, _h_et the _h_end of _h_every line." Other clerks may have done the same. He did it, I know well.

Throughout the whole of my very imperfect ministry I have sought to practise catechising in church every Sunday afternoon, and very strongly desire to urge the practice of it in every church every Sunday.

It is one of the most difficult parts of the glorious ministry since the time of St. Luke that can engage the attention of the ordained ministers of Christ's Church. It needs to be done well. It ought not to be a very nice, simple sermonette. This, though very beautiful, is not catechising. Perhaps, if at once followed by questions upon the sermonette, it might thus become very useful. But a catechesis in which the catechist simply tells a simple story or gives an amusing anecdote, or when questioning, so puts his inquiries that "yes" and "no" are the listless replies that are drawn forth from the lads and girls, is not interesting or profitable. Whenever I have the opportunity I go to an afternoon catechetical service. Some failed by being made into the time of a small preachment; some because in a few minutes the catechist easily asked questions and then answered them himself. Others were really magnificent, securing the attention and drawing forth answers admirably. Was it the great bishop Samuel Wilberforce who said, "A boy may preach, but it takes a man to catechise"?

I cannot boast of being a good catechist; but I know that catechising costs me more mental exhaustion (alas! with sad depression under a sense of trial of temper and failure) than any sermon. But I will say to any clergyman, _My dear brother, catechise; try, persevere, keep on. It will not be in vain. But secure an answer_. If need be, become a cross-examining advocate for Christ, and don't give up until you have made the catechumens, by dint of a variety of ways of putting the question, give the answer you desired. You have made them think and call memory into play, and made them feel that they "knew it all the time,"

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

But what has all this to do with a clerk? Well, I want to tell what made me _try_ to be a good catechist, and what makes me, over eighty-three years of age, _still wish_ to become such, though the incident must have happened some seventy years ago, for I recollect that on the very Sunday we crossed the Greta my father whispered to me as we were on the bridge that it was the poet Southey who was close to us, as he as well as our little family and a goodly congregation were returning from Crosthwaite Church in the afternoon. For "oncers" were unknown in those times, neither by poets and historians like Southey, nor by travellers such as we were. We had attended morning service. A stranger officiated. His name was _Bush_, and this is important. A family "riddle" impressed the name upon me. "Why were we all like Moses to-day?" "We had heard the word out of a Bush," was the reply. But at the afternoon service I was deeply impressed. The Rev. M. Bush having read the lessons, came out of the prayer-desk, and to my amazement and great interest catechised the children and others.

I thought to myself that the practice was excellent, and felt that if ever I became a clergyman (of which honour there was very small probability), I would obey the Prayer Book and catechise. Since then I have catechised ten, twenty, fifty young people, and not infrequently five hundred to one thousand, and rarely two to three thousand on a Sunday afternoon, often, however, much exhausted (having to preach in the evening) and dreadfully cast down at my own failure in not catechising better.

Decades rolled on. A lovely effigy of Southey occupied his place in Crosthwaite Church, and I found myself again amidst the enchanting views of and about Derwent.w.a.ter. The morning was wet, but I resolved to go as soon as it cleared up in order to find "th' ould clerk," and inquire of him touching the catechising of perhaps forty years ago. I was told that he had resigned, that he lived still at no very great distance. I think he was succeeded by his son as clerk. After some trouble I found my aged friend, and told him that very many years ago I was at the church when Southey, the poet, was there, and I wanted to know if the catechising was continued. "There never has been any catechising here," said the worthy old sacristan. "Forgive me, I heard it myself." "I tell thee there never was no catechising here. I lived here all these years, and was clerk for nearly all the time." "I cannot help that," I said; "I am sure there was catechising in your church on a Sunday when I, a boy, was here." The old Churchman became testy, and my pertinacity made him irate, as he thundered out that "never had there been catechising in that church in all his day." I rose to leave him, telling him that I was very disappointed, but that I was _confident_ that I did not invent this story, and, I added, the name of the parson was Bush. "_Bush, Bush, Bush!_ Well, there was a clergyman of that name come here four Sundays, many a year ago, when the vicar was from home; and now I come to think of it, he did catechise on the Sunday afternoon. But he is the only man that ever did so here. There's been no catechising in this church, except then." We parted good friends after what I felt to be a most singular interview, far more interesting, I fear, to me than to any who may read this unadorned tale, and especially the many folks who probably but for this I should never have catechised.

But I hope the old clerk of Crosthwaite's declaration will not long be true of any church of the Anglican Communion, "There's been no catechising here." My success as a preacher, or catechist, or parish priest has not been great, but this does not greatly surprise me, while sorrowing that so it has been. But I think it likely that the incident at Crosthwaite Church was a chief cause of my trying to be a catechist, and I conclude by saying to any one in holy orders, or preparing to receive them. Make catechising an important effort in your ministry.

It was a small parish. The vicar was a learned man, and an authority as an antiquary, and a man of high character. On a certain Sunday morning I was detailed to perform all the "duties" of Morning Prayer. Doubtless I was too energetic in my efforts at preaching, for my "action" proved, almost to an alarming extent, that the huge pulpit cushion had not been "dusted" for a lengthy period. But it was at the very commencement of divine service that the clerk demonstrated his originality in the proper discharge of his duties. "I stands up in yonder corner to ring the bells, and as soon as you be ready you gives me a kind of nod like, and then I leaves off ringing and comes to my place as clerk." Nothing could work better, and the clerk of B----- d and I parted at the close of divine service on very amicable terms.

Mr. F.S. Gill, aged 86, has many recollections of old clerks and their ways. In a parish in Nottinghamshire there was an old clerk who was nearly blind. There were two services on Sunday in summer, and only morning service in winter. The clerk knew the morning Psalms quite well by heart, but not so the evening Psalms. On one occasion when his verse should have been read, he was unable to recollect it. After a pause the clergyman began to read it, when the clerk, who occupied the box below that of the vicar, looked up, saying, "Nay, nay, master, I've got it now."

Another time, when an absent-minded curate omitted the ante-Communion service and appeared in his black gown in the pulpit, the clerk was indignant, and went up to remonstrate. Knocking at the pulpit door and no notice being taken of him, he proceeded to pull the black gown, and made the curate come down, change his robes, and complete the service in the orthodox fashion.

In another Notts church, during service, there was an encounter between two clerks. The regular clerk having been taken ill was unequal to his duties for some weeks, and appointed a man to carry them out for him. On the restoration to health of the real clerk he came into church to resume his duties, but found the man he had appointed occupying the box--the so-called desk. Whereupon they had a scuffle in the aisle.

The Rev. William Selwyn recollects the following incidents in the parish of F-----, near Cambridge:

Here up to the end of the sixties and well into the seventies a most quaint service was in fashion. The morning service began with a metrical Psalm--Tate and Brady--led by the clerk (of these more hereafter). This being ended, the vicar commenced the service always with the sentence "O Lord, correct me"--never any other. Then all things went on in the regular course till the end of the Litany, when the clerk would be heard stamping down the church and ascending the gallery in order to be ready for the second metrical Psalm. That ended, the vicar would commence with the ante-Communion service from the _reading-desk_. This went on in due course till the end of the Nicene Creed, when without sermon, prayers, or blessing, the morning service came to an abrupt termination. The afternoon service was identical, save that it ended with a sermon and the blessing.

But the chief peculiarity was the clerk and the singing. The metrical Psalm chosen was invariably one for the day of the month whatever it might be. The clerk would give it out, "Let's sing to the praise and glory of G.o.d," and then would read the first two lines. The usual village band--fiddle, trombone, etc. etc.--would accompany him, which thing done, the next two lines would follow, and so on. Usually the number of verses was four, but sometimes the clerk would go on to six, or even seven. Once, I remember, this led to a somewhat ludicrous result. It was the seventh day of the month, consequently the thirty-fifth was the metrical Psalm to be sung. I think my late revered relative, Canon Selwyn, learnt then with astonishment, as I did myself, of the existence of the following lines within the folds of the Prayer Book:

"And when through dark and slippery ways They strive His rage to shun, His vengeful ministers of wrath Shall goad them as they run."

It is hard to think that such a service could have been possible within seven miles of a University town, and I need hardly say it was very trying to the younger ones.

In the afternoon the band migrated to the dissenting chapel. On one occasion the band failed to appear, and the clerk was left alone.

However, he made the best of it, with scant support from the congregation, so turning to them at the end, said in a loud voice, "Thank you for your help!"

THE PARISH OF BROMFIELD, SALOP.

From these ludicrous scenes it is refreshing to turn to a service which, though primitive, was conducted with the utmost reverence and decency.

When I was inst.i.tuted in 1866 all the singing was conducted, and most reverently conducted, under the auspices of the clerk. He was a handsome man, with a flowing beard, magnificent ba.s.s voice, and a wooden leg.

With two or three sons, daughters, and others in the village he carried on the choir, and though there were only hymns, nothing could be better. Of its kind I have seldom heard anything better. They had to yield to the inexorable march of time, but I parted from them with regret. Though we now have a surpliced choir of men and boys, with a trained organist and choirmaster, I always look back to my good old friend with his daughters and their companions, who were the leaders of the singing in the early days of my inc.u.mbency.