He led the hymns and read the Psalms, and repeated the responses with much fervour; perpetuating (long after it had ceased to be correct) the idea that he alone could be relied upon.  Should the preacher inadvertently close his discourse with the sacred name either as part of a text or otherwise, a fervent “Amun” was certain to resound through the building, either because long custom had led him to regard the appendage as indispensable to it, or because like an old soldier suddenly roused to “attention,” he awoke from a stolen slumber to jerk himself into the mental attitude most familiar to him.  This last supposition, however, is a libel upon his fair character.  I cannot believe that Wren ever slept on duty.  He kept near to him a long hazel stick, wherewith to overawe any of the younger members of the congregation who were inclined either to speak or titter.  On Wednesdays and Fridays in Lent, when the school attended morning service, and, in the absence of older people, occupied the principal seats instead of their Sunday places in the gallery, Wren’s rod was frequently called into active play, and I have heard the stick resound on the luckless head of many an offending culprit.

Let me give one closing story of him on one of those weekday mornings.

It was St. John the Evangelist’s Day, and a few of us met at church for matins.  It was thought well to introduce a hymn for the festival (our hymn book in those days was Mercer’s Church Psalter and Hymn Book) and Wren was to take charge, as usual, of the barrel-organ.  My father gave out hymn 292 at the appointed place, but only silence followed.  Again “292,” and then came a voice from the west gallery, “The 283rd!” My father did not take the hint, and again, rather unfortunately, hazarded “Hymn 292.”  This was too much for our organist, who called in still louder tones, “’Tis the 283rd I tell you!” Fortunately, we were a small company, but matters would have been the same, I dare say, on a Sunday.

In the vestry subsequently Wren explained to my father, “You know there are two Johns; the 292nd hymn belongs to John the Baptist’s Day; this is John the Evangelist’s.”

The confusion once over my father was much amused with the incident, and frequently entertained friends with it afterwards, when I am bound to say it did not lose its richness of detail.  “Don’t I keep a-telling on you?” was the fully developed question, as I last remember hearing the story told.  The above, however, I can vouch for as strictly correct, being one of the select party privileged to witness the occurrence.

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Mr. Frederick W. Hackwood, the historian of Wednesbury, has kindly sent the following description of the famous clerks of that place: