this pathetic
request: "Thou'lt dig my grave, Jont, lad."

With Dick the last of the "Northern Lights" flickered out. Nothing now
remains in the village recalling those old times. The village inn has
been suppressed, and the drinking bouts are over. The old church has
been entirely restored, and there is order and decency in the services.
The strange thing is that it should have been possible that only forty
years ago matters were in such a state of chaos and disorder, and in
such need of drastic reformation.

Another Yorkshire clerk flourished in the thirties at Bolton-on-Dearne
named Thomas Rollin, commonly called Tommy. He used to render Psalm cii.
6: "I am become a _pee-li-can_ in the wilderness, and an owl in the
_dee-sert_." Tommy was a tailor by trade, and made use of a
ready-reckoner to assist him in making up his accounts, and his
familiarity with that useful book was shown when reading the second
verse of the forty-fifth Psalm, which Tommy invariably read: "My tongue
is the pen of a _ready-reckoner_," to the immense delight of the
youthful members of the congregation.

CHAPTER XVIII

AN OLD CHESHIRE CLERK AND SOME OTHER WORTHIES

It is nearly fifty years since I used to attend the quaint old parish
church at Lawton, Cheshire, situate half-way between Congleton and
Crewe. It is a lonely spot, "miles from anywhere," having not the
vestige of a village, and the congregation was formed of well-to-do
farmers, who came from the scattered farmsteads. How well I remember the
old parish clerk and the numerous duties which fell to his lot! He
united in his person the offices of clerk, sexton, beadle,
church-keeper, organist, and ringer. The organ was of the barrel kind,
and no one knew how to manipulate the instrument or to change the
barrels, except the clerk. He had also to place ten decent loaves in a
row on the communion table every Sunday morning, which were provided by
a charitable bequest for the benefit of the poor widows of the parish.
If the widows did not attend service to curtsy for them, the loaves were
given to any one who liked to take them. Old Clerk Briscall baked them
himself. He kept a small village shop about two miles from the church.
He was also the village shoemaker. A curious system prevailed. As you
entered the church, near the large stove you would see a long bench, and
under this bench a row of boots and shoes. If any one wanted his boots
to be mended, he would take them to church wi