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 Derwentwater.  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,