at
Bristol (Sept., 1895) told a story of a pious Catholic visiting
Westminster Abbey, and kneeling in a quiet corner for private devotion,
when he was summoned in stentorian tones to come and view the royal
tombs and chapels. "But I have seen them," said the stranger, "and I
only wish to say my prayers." "Prayers is over," said the verger.
"Still, I suppose," said the stranger, "there can be no objection to my
saying my prayers quietly here?" "No objection, sir!" said the irate
verger. "Why, it would be an insult to the Dean and Chapter."

* * * * *

The Rev. M.E. Jenkins writes his remembrances of several old clerks.

There was dear old Robert Livesay, of Blackburn parish church, whom
every one knew, his large rubicund face beaming with good nature and
humour--a very kindly old soul. In 1870 I was appointed to an old-world
Dale's parish, which had one of the real old Yorkshire clerks, Frank
Hutchinson. He was lame and blind in one eye, and well do I recall his
sonorous and tremulous response, his love for the Psalms (Tate and
Brady's); he "reckoned nought o' _Hymns Ancient and Modern_." I used
generally to find him with a long pipe in the vestry on my return from
afternoon service. He was a great authority on the ancient history of
the parish, and was formerly schoolmaster. He had brought up most
respectably a large family of sons and daughters on the smallest means,
many of whom still survive. I had a great respect for the old man, and
so he had for me. He was very great at leading that peculiarly
dirge-like wail at the huge Yorkshire funerals. I never could quite make
out any words, but as a singularly effective and musical cadence in a
minor key, it was no doubt a survival, as I once heard Canon Atkinson
say, the famous vicar of Danby, my immediate neighbour on the moors. At
last I attended Frank Hutchinson daily in his prolonged decay, and
received his solemn blessing and commendation on my work; and he
received at my hand a few hours before his death his last communion,
surrounded by all his children and grandchildren, in his small bedroom,
by the light of a single candle. I can still see his thin face uplifted.
It is thirty-five years ago, and I can still hear the striking of his
lucifer match in the midst of the afternoon service, and see him holding
up close to his own eye the candle and the book, and can hear his
tremulous "Amen," quite independent of the choral one sung by a s