The Argosy — page 348: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

332 “* Kitlings for his Reverence.” ‘¢To you hear me, your honour ?” Another rap with the stick. ** Ay,” replied Mr. Ogilby, ‘‘ I hear you—go away, or I'll have you taken up again for a brawler.” This scene was repeated day after day. The magistrate had no peace or quiet. Along the country roads, or in the village street, the old farmer used to meet him, calling out— ' If the law be justice, and the gospel true, There's five shillin’ to the old farmer due.” The persecution went on until Mr. Ogilby could endure it no longer. At Jength he opened his door, saying, ‘‘ Here’s five shil- lings, you old tormentor, and I’d give more than that to be rid of you.” ‘Thank your honour,” replied the old farmer, taking off his hat, and making a grand bow. ,“‘I was going to tak’ half-a-crown more off your honour, but as you have behaved so decent, I’ll be content wi’ my ain five shillin’, an’ I'll drink your health on my way home.” The old parish clerk, a species now almost as extinct as the Dodo, was often a great character; his position of responsibility and authority tending to foster whatever self-conceit might be in him. Thirty years ago the clerk led the singing and responding in all Irish country churches, the congregation giving themselves little trouble either to read or sing. Thus, in many cases, the voices of clergyman and clerk were the only voices to be heard. The clerk’s favourite office was that of “rising the time,” as he expressed it. The metri- cal version of the Psalms, according to Tate and Brady, was sung to slow airs, very much ornamented—‘a linked sweetness long drawn out,” and the clerk sometimes had the singing all to himsel—£ A certain clerk in an Ulster parish, singing solo one Sunday, made a false start. By no means daunted, he stopped short and soliloquised, ‘‘ T’ll try it again,” rector and congregation waiting anxiously. Another attempt—another pause. “I'll try it again,” said he for the second time. He did try it again, and once more broke down. “ Will I try it again? No,” said he, ‘Ml quet it.” Another parish clerk was exceedingly vain of his rasping voice, and used to boast that he could go higher and lower than any instrument. His rector, not being a musician, did not venture to remonstrate with him much about his singing, but he was a poet also, and when Mr. Hammond discovered his gift in this line he felt obliged to inter- fere. The occasion was a Sunday that fell upon the fifth of No- vember. The clerk, an ardent Orangeman from Fermanagh, strong- hold of Protestantism in Ulster, announced the Psalm thus: “ My friends, on this memorable anniversary Iam going to give out a hymn of my own composure.” ECOMICOOOKS. CO i