After the resignation of Mr. Yard in 1859 a Low Churchman was appointed, who restored the use of the black gown.  Mr. Hemmans had to preach in the evening of the first Sunday, and was undecided as to whether he ought to continue to use the surplice.  He consulted Evison, whose brave advice was, “Stick to your colours.”

The clerk stuck stoutly to his Radical principles, and one day went to Lincoln to take part in a contested election.  On the following Sunday the vicar spoke of “the filthy stream of politics.”  The old man was rather moved by this, and said afterwards, “Well, I am not too old to learn.”  Though staunch to his own principles, he was evidently considerate towards the opinions of others.  He used to keep a pony and gig, and his foreman, one Solomon Bingham, was a local preacher.  When there came a rough Sunday morning the kind old clerk would say:  “Well, Solomon, where are you going to seminate your schism to-day?  You may have my trap.”  Canon Hemmans retains a very affectionate regard for the memory of the old clerk.

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Mrs. Ellen M. Burrows sends me a charming description of an old-fashioned service, and some clerkly manners which are worth recording.

From twenty-five to thirty years ago the small Bedfordshire village of Tingrith had quaint customs and ceremonies which to-day exist only in the memory of the few.

The lady of the manor was perhaps best described by a neighbouring squire as a “potentate in petticoats.”

Being sole owner of the village, she found employment for all the men, enforced cleanliness on all the women, greatly encouraged the industry of lace-making and hat-sewing, paid for the schooling of the children, and looked after the morals of everybody generally.

Legend has it that one ancient schoolmaster whom this good lady appointed was not overgood at spelling, and would allow a pupil to laboriously spell out a word and wait for him to explain.  If the master could not do this he would pretend to be preoccupied, and advise the pupil to “say ‘wheelbarrow’ and go on.”

On a Sunday each and every cottager was expected at church.  The women sat on one side of the centre aisle and the men on the other, the former attired in clean cotton gowns and the latter in their Sunday smocks.

The three bells were clanged inharmoniously until a boy who was stationed at a point of vantage told the ringer “she’s a-comin’.”  Then one bell only was rung to announce the near arrival of the lady of the manor.

The rector would take his place at the desk, and the occupants of the centre aisle would rise respectfully to their feet in anticipation.