“A parson who lived on the coast of Cornwall, where one great business of the inhabitants is plundering from ships that are wrecked, being once preaching when the alarm was given, found that the sound of the wreck was so much more attractive than his sermon, that all his congregation were scampering out of church.  To check their precipitation, he called out, ‘My brethren, let me entreat you to stay for five words more’; and marching out of the pulpit, till he had got pretty near the door of the church, slowly pronounced, ‘Let us all start fair,’ and ran off with the rest of them.”

An old parishioner of the famous Rev. R. S. Hawker once told him of a very successful run of a cargo of kegs, which the obliging parish clerk allowed the smugglers to place underneath the benches and in the tower stairs of the church.  The old man told the story thus: 

“We bribed Tom Hockaday, the sexton, and we had the goods safe in the seats by Saturday night.  The parson did wonder at the large congregation, for divers of them were not regular churchgoers at other times; and if he had known what was going on, he could not have preached a more suitable discourse, for it was, ’Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess.’  It was one of his best sermons; but, there, it did not touch us, you see; for we never tasted anything but brandy and gin.”

In such smuggling ways the clerk was no worse than his neighbours, who were all more or less involved in the illicit trade.

The old Cornish clerks who used to help the smugglers were a curious race of beings, remarkable for their familiar ways with the parson.  At St. Clements the clergyman one day was reading the verse, “I have seen the ungodly flourish like a green bay tree,” when the clerk looked up with an inquiring glance from the desk below, “How can that be, maister?” He was more familiar with the colour of a bay horse than the tints of a bay tree.

At Kenwyn two dogs, one of which belonged to the parson, were fighting at the west end of the church; the parson, who was then reading the second lesson, rushed out of the pew and went down and parted them.  Returning to his pew, and doubtful where he had left off, he asked the clerk, “Roger, where was I?” “Why, down parting the dogs, maister,” replied Roger.

Two rocks stand out on the South Devon coast near Dawlish, which are known as the Parson and Clerk.  A wild, weird legend is told about these rocks—­of a parson who desired the See of Exeter, and often rode with his clerk to Dawlish to hear the latest news of the bishop who was nigh unto death.  The wanderers lost their way one dark night, and the parson exhibited most unclerical anger, telling his clerk that he would rather have the devil for a guide than him.  Of course, the devil or one of his imps obliged, and conducted the wanderers to an old ruined house, where there was a large company of disguised demons.  They all passed a merry night, singing and carousing.