During harvest he rang
the morning "leazing bell" to start the gleaners to the fields, and
every night he tolled the curfew, by which the villagers set their
clocks. He it was who, when the sermon was ended, strode with dignity
from his box on the "lower deck" down the aisle to the belfry, and
pulled the "dishing-up bell" to let home-keeping mothers know that
hungry husbands and sons were set free. Folks in those days were less
easily fatigued than they are now. Services were longer, the preacher's
"leanings to mercy" were less marked, and congregations counted
themselves ill-used if they broke up under the two hours. The boys stood
in wholesome awe of the clerk, as well they might, for his eye was keen
and his stick far-reaching. Moreover, no fear of man prevented him from
applying the latter with effect to the heads of slumberers during divine
service. By way of retaliation the youths, when opportunity occurred,
would tie the cord of the "tinkler" to the weathercock, and the parish
on a stormy night would be startled by the sound of ghostly, fitful
ting-tangs. To Sunday blows the clerk, who was afflicted with
rheumatism, added weekday anathemas as he climbed the steep ascent to
the bell-chamber and the yet steeper ladder that gave access to the
leads of the tower. The perpetual hostility that reigned between
discipliner and disciplined bred no ill will on either side.
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