ev. John Eagles in his Essays. In order to
preserve strict historical accuracy, I may add that this invitation was
recorded in the year 1837, and therefore could have no reference to
evolutionary theories and the Descent of Man. This clerk, who invariably
read "Cheberims and Sepherims," and was always "a lion to my mother's
children," looking not unlike one with his shaggy hair and beard, was
not inviting a neighbour to a Sunday afternoon at the Zoo, but only to
hear the bassoons.

When the clerk gave out the hymn or Psalm, or on rare occasions the
anthem, there was a strange sound of tuning up the instruments, and then
the instruments wailed forth discordant melody. The clerk conducted the
choir, composed of village lads and maidens, with a few stalwart basses
and tenors. It was often a curious performance. Everybody sang as loud
as he could bawl; cheeks and elbows were at their utmost efforts, the
bassoon vying with the clarionet, the goose-stop of the clarionet with
the bassoon--it was Babel with the addition of the beasts. And they were
all so proud of their performance. It was the only part of the service
during which no one could sleep, said one of them with pride--and he was
right. No one could sleep through the terrible din. They were the most
important officials in the church, for did not the Psalms make it clear,
"The singers go before, and the minstrels" (which they understood to
mean ministers) "follow after"? And then--those anthems! They were
terrible inflictions. Every bumpkin had his favourite solo, and oh! the
murder, the profanation! "Some put their trust in charrots and some in
'orses," but they didn't "quite pat off the stephany," as one of the
singers remarked, meaning symphony. It was all very strange and curious.

Then followed the era of barrel-organs, the clerk's duty being to turn
the handle and start the singing. He was the only person who understood
its mechanism and how to change the barrels. Sometimes accidents
happened, as at Aston Church, Yorkshire, some time in the thirties. One
Sunday morning during the singing of a hymn the music came to a sudden
stop. There was a solemn pause, and then the clerk was seen to make his
way to the front of the singing gallery, and was heard addressing the
vicar in a loud tone, saying, "Please, sor, an-ell 'as coom off." The
handle had come off the instrument. At another church, in
Huntingdonshire, the organ was hidden from view by drawn curtains,
behind