In his earlier days Wren had played a flute in the village
instrumental choir, and to the last he might be heard whiling away
spare moments on a Sunday in the church (for he brought his dinner early
in the morning and bivouacked there all day!) recalling to himself the
departed glories of ancient time. He turned the handle of the barrel
organ in the west gallery from the time of its purchase in 1850 to that
of its disappearance in 1873, but I do not think that he ever
appreciated this rude substitution of mechanical art for cornet,
dulcimer, and pipe.
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.
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