old man, when I had mentioned the object of my
visit. " I should have been away in ten minutes
more. Parish business, sir—and a goodish long
trot before it's all done, for a man at my age.
But, bless you, I'm strong on my legs still! As
long as a man's legs don't give, there's a deal of
work left in him. Don't you think so, sir?"

He took his keys down, while he was talking,
from a hook behind the fireplace, and locked his
cottage door behind us.

"Nobody at home to keep house for me,"
said the clerk, with a cheerful sense of perfect
freedom from all family encumbrances. "My
wife's in the churchyard, there; and my children
are all married. A wretched place this, isn't it,
sir? But the parish is a large one— every man
couldn't get through the business as I do. It's
learning does it; and I've had my share, and a
little more. I can talk the Queen's English
(God bless the Queen!)—and that's more than
most of the people about here can do. You're
from London, I suppose, sir? I've been in London,
a matter of five-and-twenty years ago."

Chattering on in this way, he led me back to
the vestry. I looked about, to see if the two
spies were still in sight. They were not visible
anywhere. After having discovered my application
to the clerk, they had probably concealed
themselves where they could watch my next
proceedings in perfect freedom. The vestry door
was of stout old oak, studded with strong nails;
and the clerk put his large, heavy key into the
lock, with the air of a man who knew that he
had a difficulty to encounter, and who was not
quite certain of creditably conquering it.

"I'm obliged to bring you this way, sir," he
said, " because the door from the vestry to the
church is bolted on the vestry side. We might
have got in through the church, otherwise. This
is a perverse lock, if ever there was one yet. It's
big enough for a prison-door; it's been hampered
over and over again; and it ought to be changed
for a new one. I've mentioned that to the church-
warden, fifty times over at least: he's always
saying 'I'll see about it'—and he never does
see. Ah, it's a lost corner, this place. Not
like London— is it, sir? Bless you, we are all
asleep here! We don't march with the times."

After twisting and turning the key, the heavy
lock yielded; and he opened the door.

The vestry was larger than I should have
supposed it to be, judging from the outside only.
It was a dim, mouldy, melancholy old room, with
a low, raftered ceiling. Round two sides of it,
the sides nearest to the interior of the church,
ran heavy wooden presses, wormeaten and gaping
with age. Hooked to the inner corner of one of
these presses hung several surplices, all bulging
out at their lower ends in an irreverent-looking
bundle of limp drapery, and wanting nothing but
legs under them to suggest the idea of a cluster
of neglected curates who had committed suicide,
by companionably hanging themselves all
together. Below the surplices, on the floor, stood
three packing-cases, with the lids half off, half
on, and the straw profusely bursting out of their
cracks and crevices in every direction. Behind
them, in a corner, was a litter of dusty papers;
some large and rolled up, like architects' plans;
some loosely strung together on files, like bills
or letters. The room had once been lighted by a
small side window; but this had been bricked
up, and a lantern skylight was now substituted
for it. The atmosphere was heavy and mouldy;
being rendered oppressive by the closing of the
door which led into the church. This door also
was composed of solid oak, and was bolted, at
top and bottom, on the vestry side.

"We might be tidier, mightn't we, sir?"
said the cheerful clerk. " But when you're in
a lost corner of a place like this, what are you
to do? Why, look here, now—just look at
these packing-cases. There they've been, for a
year or more, ready to go to London—there
they are, littering the place—and there they'll
stop as long as the nails hold them together.
I'll tell you what, sir, as I said before, this is
not London. We are all asleep here. Bless you,
we don't march with the times!"

"What is there in the packing-cases?" I
asked.

"Bits of old wood carvings from the pulpit,
and panels from the chancel, and images from
the organ-loft," said the clerk. "Portraits of
the twelve apostles in wood—and not a whole
nose among 'em. All broken, and wormeaten:
crumbling to dust at the edges—as brittle as
crockery, and as old as the church, if not older."

"And why were they going to London ? To
be repaired?"

"That's it, sir. To be repaired; aud where
they were past repair, to be copied in sound
wood. But, bless you, the money fell short—
and there they are, waiting for new subscriptions,
and nobody to subscribe. It was all done
a year ago, sir. Six gentlemen dined together
about it, at the hotel in the new town. They
made speeches, and passed resolutions, and put
their names down, and printed off thousands of
prospectuses. Beautiful prospectuses, sir, all
flourished over with Gothic devices in red ink,
saying it was a disgrace not to restore the
church and repair the famous carvings, and so
on. There are the prospectuses that couldn't
be distributed, and the architect's plans and
estimates, and the whole correspondence which
set everybody at loggerheads and ended in a
dispute, all down together in that corner,
behind the packing-cases. The money dribbled in
a little at first—but what can you expect out of
London ? There was just enough, you know, to
pack the broken carvings, and get the estimates,
and pay the printer's bill—and after that, there
wasn't a halfpenny left. We have nowhere else to
put them—nobody in the new town cares about
accommodating us—we're in a lost corner—and
this is an untidy vestry and who's to help it?
—that's what I want to know."

My anxiety to examine the register did not
dispose me to offer much encouragement to the
old man's talkativeness. I agreed with him that
nobody could help the untidiness of the vestry
—and then suggested that we should proceed
to our business without more delay.