At the church of Stratfieldsaye, where the Duke of Wellington was a regular attendant, a stranger was preaching, and the verger when he ended came up the stairs, opened the pulpit door a little way, slammed it to, and then opened it wide for the preacher to go out.  He asked in the vestry why he had shut the door again while opening it, and the verger said, “We always do that, sir, to wake the duke.”

A former young curate of Stoke being very anxious to do things rubrically, insisted on the ring being put on the “fourth finger” at a wedding he took.  The woman resisted and said, “I would sooner die than be married on my little finger.”  The curate said, “But the rubric says so,” whereupon the deus ex machina appeared in the shape of the parish clerk, who stepped forward and said, “In these cases, sir, the thoomb counts as a digit.”

A gentleman going to see a ritualistic church in London was walking into the chancel when an official stepped forward and said, “You mustn’t go in there.”  “Why not?” said the gentleman.  “I’m put here to stop you,” said the man.  “Oh!  I see,” said the gentleman; “you’re what they call the rude screen, aren’t you?”

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A clergyman in the diocese of Wakefield told me that when first he came to the parish he found things in a very neglected state, and among other changes he introduced an early celebration of the Holy Communion.  An old clerk collected the offertory, and when he brought it up to the clergyman he said, “There’s eight on ’em, but two ’asn’t paid.”

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A verger was showing a lady over a church when she asked him if the vicar was a married man.  “No, ma’am,” he answered, “he’s a chalybeate.”

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A verger showing a large church to a stranger, pointed out another man and said, “That is the other verger.”  The gentleman said, “I did not know there were two of you,” and the verger replied, “Oh, yes, sir, he werges up one side of the church and I werges up the other.”

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On my first visit to Almondbury to preach, the verger came to me in the vestry and said, “A’ve put a platform in t’ pulpit for ye; you’ll excuse me, but a little man looks as if he was in a toob.” (N.B.  To prevent undue inferences I am five feet nine inches in height.)

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One of the speakers at the meeting of the Catholic Truth Society 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.”