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 squire.”  Whereupon he clambered down again, and without much further delay the service proceeded.]

Our parish church we seldom attended, for the simple reason that the aged vicar was scarcely audible; but there the clerk, after robing the vicar, mounted to the gallery above the vestry, where, taking a front seat, he watched for the exit of the vicar (whose habit it was to wait for the young men, who also waited in the church porch for him to begin the service!), and then, taking his seat at the organ, commenced the voluntary.  It was his duty also to give out the hymns.  I have known him play an eight-line tune to a four-line verse (or psalm—­we used Tate and Brady), repeating the words of each verse twice!

The organ produced the most curious sounds.  In course of time the mice got into it, and the churchwardens, of whom the clerk was one, approached the vicar with the information, at the same time venturing a hint that the organ was quite worn out and that a harmonium would be more acceptable to the congregation than the present music.  His reply was that a harmonium was not a sufficiently sacred instrument, and added, “Let a mouse-trap be set at once.”