A year or two ago the End of the World became a common topic of conversation, as a newspaper was exploiting some prediction of it. And a man here cleared the matter up with the remark—“In church it be World Without End.” About fifty years ago my brother and I used to go to the Scotch Church in Crown Court towards the end of December, to hear Dr Cumming announce the End of the World for the ensuing year. But after a few years he grew more wary, and he hedged—“And if the World does not indeed come to an End, something else very remarkable will certainly occur.” (I quote from memory, and may have got the words wrong, but they were to that effect.) About the same date I heard a preacher in a country church declaring that the World, “having now lasted for close upon six thousand years, cannot reasonably be expected to last much longer.”
Coming into Jerusalem by the Damascus gate, 14 March 1882, I noticed two unfamiliar objects standing out above the city walls against the evening sky. Upon inquiry I found that they were ventilating pipes. A family (American, I think) had taken a house there, as they thought the Day of Judgement was at hand, yet wished to have a sanitated home meanwhile. And other families had likewise taken houses at Jerusalem, the notion being that the Last Judgement was going to be held there and residents would get priority.
On a Good Friday morning I found a small girl standing on my door-step here, eating a hot-cross-bun. I asked what she was doing there, and she curtsied and said, “Please, zir, I be fasting.” And generally the seasons of the Christian year were marked by buns, lamb, goose, plum-pudding, pancakes and salt-fish far more than by observances at church. There were no week-day services at Lustleigh except on Christmas Day, Ash Wednesday and Good Friday; and the only recognition of a saint’s-day was the transfer of its collect to the following Sunday. There was Communion four times in the year, each time with a fresh bottle of wine at ten shillings per bottle. It was heralded by the reading of the exhortation on the previous Sunday, and perhaps was held in more esteem for being so uncommon.
A new Rector came to Lustleigh at the end of 1844, and remained there till his death at the end of 1887; and at first the parish did not like his innovations. My grandfather writes to my father on 15 December 1844—“I am informed that the parishioners will not submit to any alteration in the service, and that the churchwardens have gone over the parish to ascertain their opinions, and it is supposed the parson will not attempt anything further to annoy them,” and again on 29 December 1844—“I saw Mr ***** on Thursday: he told me he had left the church for seven weeks until last Sunday, when he determined to go and shew his resentment by leaving the church on the parson going to the communion. He did so, and again on Christmas day, but no one followed him. They are opposed to the surplice and offertory, but have not spirit to resent it. His brother (who is churchwarden) says unless the parson goes back to the accustomed duties of the church, he will leave altogether. His father talks more than he does, but it appears he has stood the whole, offertory and all.”
He writes again, 20 January 1845, about people leaving the church—“What will they do then? I suppose they will dissent and erect more chapels, so we shall by and by have a plenty of ’Isms. I fancy we have quite enough already.” People left the church and went to chapel for very varied reasons. I remember an excellent old lady doing this because a child of hers had caught its death of cold by the parson a-baptizin’ of it without a-puttin’ of a kettleful o’ bilin’ water into that stoney font.
The new Rector was merely following the directions in the Book of Common Prayer. After the Sermon he is to “return to the Lord’s Table and begin the Offertory,” and then, “if there be no Communion,” he is to say a Prayer and Collect, concluding with the Blessing. And he kept his surplice on for finishing the service, instead of putting on a black gown to preach in, as was the custom when the Offertory and Prayer and Collect were omitted and the Blessing was given from the pulpit. He was right enough in what he did; but it was hardly worth doing, if it scared parishioners away.
The bishop was trying to stop all innovations. My grandfather writes to my father, 20 January 1845—“What do you think of the old bishop’s letter? I fancy it is very evasive: he gives them no direct instructions. They are to do as they are now doing: he does not tell them to withdraw any innovations.” It was only in more important matters that the bishop gave direct instructions to his clergy. My grandfather writes to my father, 27 October 1856—“The bishop has caused ***** to shave off his beard: he was like a Crimean soldier.”
Innovations might have been accepted here at any other time; but this was the period of Puseyism, and every innovation was supposed to be the outcome of a plot to Romanize the church. People generally knew nothing of ritual or doctrine, and would not have been so vehement about such things, had there not been another cause behind—they thought the clergy were not altogether honest over this. A few had gone over to Rome, and there was a notion that many others would have done the same, if they could have done it without giving up their livings. And from this point of view Anglicanism was merely a fraudulent device for holding on to livings, while assenting to the doctrines and ritual of Rome; or, as my grandfather puts it, 10 November 1850, “to remain in receipt of the Protestant pay while practising all the eccentricities of Romanism.”
However, there was not much sign of Romanism here, or of its eccentricities. Once a stranger came to church and crossed herself, and no one knew what she was at. It was described to me—“Her were a-spot-in’ and a-stripe-in’ of herself”—as if it were telegraphy by dot and dash.
There was a policeman who used to work here in the garden before he joined the force; and, when he was home on leave, he came round to see the gardener. I found them in the cider-cellar, looking at a dozen empty casks that I had lately bought. These were port-pipes of over a hundred gallons each; and, on seeing them ranged round the cellar, I began to think of Ali Baba and the oil-jars for the Forty Thieves. The policeman did not know the story, and listened very attentively and thoughtfully while I recounted it to him; and then he said in a regretful way, “We ain’t allowed to do that now.” Some years afterwards he had a murderer in his hands, and the murderer died. It was really a very satisfactory ending to the case, as it saved all the time and trouble that is wasted on the trial and execution of a murderer caught red-handed in the act. I presume the murderer died legitimately, but I thought about the Forty Thieves.