“Sixty years have I been clerk o’ t’ owd chutch, and hae buried generations of them as comed to the owd place—christened ’em, and married ’em, and buried ’em, Master Portlock. They didn’t like me being made clerk so young in them days. Jacky Robinson, as wanted to be clerk when father died, said I was nobbut a boy, but t’ owd vicar said—owd Master Willoughby, you didn’t know him?” The Churchwarden shook his head. “No; he died eight and fifty year ago. He said, ‘No; let Sammy Warmoth step into his father’s shoes, same as him as is dead stepped into his father’s shoes. I find,’ he says, ‘there’s been Warmoth’s clerks here for a hundred years at least;’ and now, Master Portlock, sir, I can say there’s been Warmoths clerks here for a hundred and sixty year, and if my life is spared I’ll make it two hundred, for they can’t turn me out, and I wean’t go.”
“How old wert ta when you was made clerk, Sammy?” said the Churchwarden, looking at the old man with a pitying smile. “Thrutty-three, and I was just married, Master Portlock, and thrutty-three and sixty makes ninety-three, eh?”
“Fine owd age, Sam.”
“Eh?”
“A fine owd age, I say.”
“Chah! Not it. Read your Bible more, man. Ninety-three’s as good as nowt to what men used to be. Nay, nay, nay, I shan’t give up. Yow may go and tell parson as theer’s lots o’ life in me yet, and that he’d best go back again to London and foreign parts, and leave us alone here wi’ Mr Paulby. He’ll drive all the congregation over to the Dissenters, they’re talking a’ready o’ building noo chapel for ta Wesley folk.”
“Ay, they’re going ahead, Sammy, but we don’t care for the opposition shop. We’ve got the old established bank, eh?”
“That’s a true word, Master Portlock,” piped the old man, “and we can pity ’em, wi’ their plans and local preachers, a set o’ nobodies, o’ sons o’ Levi, takking off their aprons and running fro’ behind their counters to usurp the priest’s office; but you mark my words, and you may tell parson what I say; if he’s coming down here thinking to do just as he likes, he’ll be driving all folk to chapel.”
“No, no; not he, Sammy.”
“Ay, but he will, altering ta chutch sarvice, an’ upsetting all that’s owd—schoolmaster, and clerk, and chutch. You tell him that he may keep his man till I’m dead, and then put him in, for I nivver had a boy o’ my own to tak’ my place.”