Often can we learn much from them of old-world manners, superstitions,
folk-lore, and the curious form of worship practised in the days of our
forefathers. My own clerk is a great authority on the lore of ancient
days, of bygone hard winters, of weather-lore, of the Russian war time,
and of the ways of the itinerant choir and orchestra, of which he was
the noted leader. Strange and curious carols did he and his sons and
friends sing for us on Christmas Eve, the words and music of which have
been handed down from father to son for several generations, and have
somewhat suffered in their course. His grandson still performs for us
the Christmas Mumming Play. The clerk is seventy years of age, and
succeeded his father some forty years ago. Save for "bad legs," the
curse of the rustic, he is still hale and hearty, and in spite of an
organ and surpliced choir, his powerful voice still sounds with a
resonant "Amen." Never does he miss a Sunday service.
We owe much to our faithful clerks. Let us revere their memories. They
are a most interesting race, and your "Amen clerk" is often more
celebrated and better known than the rector, vicar, patron or squire.
The irreverence, of which we have given many alarming instances, was
the irreverence of the times in which they lived, of the bad old days of
pluralist rectors and itinerant clerics, when the Church was asleep and
preparing to die with what dignity she could.
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