A BLACK COUNTRY VICAR. ■

" CALL me Old Tommy Two-Sticks," he used to say to the children when, owing to an accident, he had to walk with the aid of two sticks. And the name stuck to him for the rest of his life.

His parish was unlovely and his parishioners were mostly un- cultured, but nothing would induce him to leave, not even his sluvwd suspicion that his acceptance of another benefice would

• have been greeted in some quarters with the polite regret that conceals a profound relief. He lived among his "poor people" for thirty years, and his one unchangeable intention was to die among them and be buried among them. And he carried his intention out. It would scarcely be true to say that he was loved, but there was probably no strong feeling of animosity against him ; he was a great curiosity, and perhaps the parishioners felt it was interesting to have such an eccentric Vicar. They recognized his cleverness, and on the whole they were rather proud of him, even when—as often happened—he offended them. And they frequently had good reason to be offended.

His hobby was botany, and he was a great authority on the subject. His enthusiasm for this pursuit once led to his arrest as a supposed lunatic. He suddenly discovered a rare plant for which he had searched for years, and immediately began to dance round it, exclaiming : "Oh, you little darling, I've got you,. I've got you !s' The next moment he felt two strong hands seize hold of him and heard a voice saying: "Yes, and we've got you! Come along." Two warders from a neighbouring asylum were looking for an escaped lunatic, and thought they had found, if not the object of their search, at least a man who had escaped from another mad- house. He protested and explained, but in vain, and he was taken to the asylum. On the way he remembered to his relief that he knew the Medical Superintendent, but on his arrival this official was out, and the Vicar was locked up for half-an-hour. When the doctor returned both of them laughed heartily at the adventure. The Vicar, so far from keeping the incident to himself, related it to his parishioners in the course of a sermon.

Every year he went to Spain for a holiday, and was absent for eight weeks, generally going just before Easter. He was a con- firmed bachelor, but the people had a theory that he had a black wife in Spain (their geographical ideas being rather mediaeval), and that this accounted for his annual journey. It caused him great amusement. He never contradicted them, for he did not wish to deprive them of the pleasure that this belief gave them.

It was interesting, though seldom inspiring, to go to church, for something extraordinary nearly always happened. The church itself had no beauty, and there was scarcely anything in it that was "correct." It had originally been a Lady Huntingdon Chapel ; it had no chancel, and the East End was at the West End. The reading-desk faced the people (suggesting that the prayers, like the sermon, were addressed to them, and the Vicar's style of reading them favoured the idea). Reverence was not taught by example, and it was difficult to remember that we were in a "place of worship." The Vicar eould not tolerate a silent form of de- votion; he liked " hearty services " (bellowing himself like a herd of Bashan bulls), and he used to walk round the church and stand by one person after another, with his hand upon his ear, to discover

whether they were singing. Celebrations were not always helpful, for his conduct was curious. He would stand on a pew to count the communicants, and he was once known to uncork a bottle of wine at the altar. His sermons were always an entertainment in spite of their length. Those were the days when brevity was unknown, but even then complaints were made about long-winded- ness. I remember him often saying-that if some one would provide a half-hour glass for the pulpit, he would undertake to leave off when

the sand had ran through. But no one took up the challenge. He

always wrote his sermons, but he rarely read them, for after the first few pages he would go off at a tangent and be carried hope- lessly and violently away from his subject. Had he read what he had written, we should perhaps have had reason to call him a good preacher. But at least he was never dull. More than once I laughed audibly, and my mother (I was quite a child in those days) apologized

to him afterwards on my behalf, but did not hesitate to add : "If you will say such rubbish, you must expect people to laugh."

She never refrained from telling him what she thought of his ways, but he never resented her plain speaking. On the other hand, she was always ready to come to his aid ; on one occasion he appealed (from the pulpit) for some lady to mend his gown, and she undertook the task. He showed his gratitude by being pointedly personal not long afterwards when she was for a time absent from cburzh

after having all her teeth extracted. He was preaching about artificiality. "People have everything false nowadays—false hair, false eyebrows, and (looking straight into our pow) even falsa teeth." This, however, was only a mild case of his " personalities " ; they were often much worse. He was once haranguing the people on the subject of the collections and said : "Put your threepenny- bits back into your purses. I don't mean you poor people up in the gallery. Of course if you've got nothing you can give nothing." This was quite inoffensive, but he went on to say, looking straight into one pew : "Of course if you've five thousand pounds loss than nothing, why you can't give anything at all." The occupant of that pew had just failed for that amount. When the churchwardens, after the service, remonstrated with the Vicar, he replied that he had no recollection of saying anything of the kind. And possibly he was telling the truth. On another occasion he electrified the con- gregation by exclaiming : "Thou vile old caitiff, thou grey-headed old fool, thou old man of sixty-five, where hest thou been all these years ? " When they recovered from their astonishment at this outburst, they realized that he was apostrophizing himself. He ended by saying "It will be the curate's turn next Sunday." He fre- quently turned to the curate in the course of a sermon to ask his opinion, and insisted on having an answer. If the curate's opinion differed from his own, he would say : "Wrong again ; I stand cor- rected." I often saw the curate cover his face with the folds of his surplice and shake all over with suppressed laughter. When the churchyard was enlarged the Bishop was not well enough to preach, and it was suggested by the churchwardens that the rector of the adjoining parish (the patron of the living and the son of an Earl) should be asked to preach. "Certainly not," was the reply ; "the Bishop shall see that the Vicar of this parish can preach as well as any one." During the sermon (which on this occasion he read as well as wrote) he turned round to the Bishop and the clergy, who were in the Sanctuary, and quoted a Latin author, and then, turning back, said to the people : "I have said that in Latin for the benefit of my clerical brethren." The curate informed his family afterwards that it was well that the Vicar gave the quotation in Latin, as it was not fit to repeat in English. As I was only six years old at the time, I have no recollection of the matter of the sermon, but I remember the manner of it well. The fact that he was asked to preach before the British Association in Birmingham is evidence that he was regarded as a man of considerable attainments. He did not always give this impression in his own church, but he had always enough, and more than enough, to say, and he said it with much force, and generally with some action. One Sunday he found his flow of eloquence impeded by the hassock. After several un- successful attempts to get it out of his way, he turned round and kicked it down the pulpit steps, and then resumed his discourse with perfect composure.

To give a true idea of his reading of the Lessons would be beyond the power of the most skilful writer. His intention was to depict a scene ; his effect often was nearly to cause one. His efforts to be graphic made it impossible for his hearers to be grave. He suited the action to the words in a manner that was more realistic than reverent. The Miracle at Cana gave him an opportunity that he could not lose. "They have no more wine," was uttered in a whisper with his hand to his mouth.

He took a special delight in the Wednesday night service, and secured a congregation by giving doles of tea to the women who attended it, distributing tickets one week and the tea the next. I have often seen a queue of women lining up outside the vestry to receive the reward of godliness. He always started for his holiday on a Thursday, and always preached the previous evening on the text, "I take my journey into Spain." The curate abhorred the Vicar's method of bribery, and at one of these services, in giving out the notices, said : "The Vicar starts for his holiday to-morrow, so next Wednesday we shall see who are the Bread-and-Butter Christians."

The Vicar was a strange man, but he had many good points, and with all his peculiarities it could be said that" he had the root of the matter in him." He was seen at his best at the funeral of the curate, who had worked with him for more than fourteen years. It was only by a supreme effort that he was able to master his emotion. He held 11D through the service with a wonderful self-restraint, but as the last words passed from his lips he covered his face with his surplice to hide the grief he could no longer keep back. His genuine sorrow at that moment showed what his true self would have been if his heart had always ruled his life.

He always hoped for a sudden death, and he was given what he desired. He lived in lodgings (stubbornly refusing to have a vicarage built), and one evening his landlady went into his sitting- room and said : "Isn't it sad, Sir? Richard Salt has died suddenly." " Sad ? " he replied. "No, certainly not. Sudden death, sudden glory. It's exactly what I want myself." The next morning his wish was gratified. He fell down dead as he was dressing. So he passed to his rest to receive healing of the mind, and, it may be hoped, to find that with all his strangeness he had not wholly lived in vain. It is nearly thirty years since he died, and no one has yet recorded his words and his ways. Yet they were worth recording, for he was a character such as we rarely meet in real life. If some great novelist had depicted him exactly as he was, the world would have said : "Of course it is an exaggeration, though perhaps there was some foundation at the back." But no character in fiction was ever more striking or more strange than this Black Country Vicar. To have known him in childhood is to remember him more and more distinctly to the end of my days. B.