The Secret's In and Must Come Out

The "ancient redstone edifice" of St. Margaret's, Wolstanton, is a landmark in the Potteries, "seated on an eminence, its lofty spire forms a conspicuous feature in this part of the country." In 1863, a serious charge against the longtime vicar of the church excited considerable interest. 

The Rev John Tyson had been in Wolstanton for more than 25 years. One of a clergyman's duties was to sit with the sick and provide some spiritual comfort. Thus did the vicar spend many hours in the cottage of Mrs. Mary Ann Barlow whose mother was dying. Mrs. Barlow was a widow in her 30's; she'd been born in the village, her late husband had been a schoolmaster and local relief officer. She was quite a respectable woman. Mr. Tyson's regular calls continued until the death of her mother in September 1862.

A few days after Christmas, a letter arrived at the vicarage, signed by Mary Ann Barlow. As the letter formed the centerpiece of the case against Rev. Tyson, it is quite unfortunate that it did not survive. On that occasion, the vicar read it aloud, in the presence of his wife and his nephew. From memory, they all recalled words to the effect that "The secret's in and must come out. I should have sent this letter after the second offence, but I was afraid if I had done so you would refuse to visit my mother. Your ingratitude is very base, after my having endured this so long. I must be paid, and receive compensation for the loss of peace of mind which I have sustained. Oh, that it were with me as in days past, when I could attend church, and receive the sacrament with inward and spiritual grace." When she heard the letter read, Mrs. Tyson turned to her husband, "Why John, she means to accuse you of having improper intercourse with her."

On New Year's Day, Mrs. Barlow was taken into custody by a local plod who recalled she told him how she had to fight the vicar off. "He put his hand up my skirt but I pushed him away and resisted him." At the Police Court in Stoke, the woman was charged with extortion with threats, namely that the Rev. Tyson had attempted to commit a rape upon her person. 

Amidst a great deal of public interest and excitement, the case was heard in March at the Spring Assizes in Stafford. The Rev. Tyson, in his 60's and in delicate health, had lived a blameless and irreproachable life. Not a breath of scandal touched his name, his counsel told the court. On the stand, the vicar denied a litany of alleged improprieties. During his many visits, he never bolted the door in Mrs. Barlow's home, he never pulled down the blinds, he never sat on the sofa with the woman, she never sat on his knee, he never put his arm round her waist or up her skirt. He was never with her in her bedroom; he never pushed her down and lay with her on the bed. He never wrote to her begging that she not reveal his past wrongdoing.

What motivation would a respectable lady have for making such a horrible charge? In that lost letter, there was also mention that Mrs. Barlow had asked the vicar for a loan of £30 which he had refused. At that time, Mrs. Barlow, the accused, could not take the stand in her defense. Representing her was Henry Matthews Q.C., a future Home Secretary. He made a lengthy speech insisting that the "wrong construction" had been placed upon that letter. Her mother had just died, she was in great need, and her pastor and spiritual adviser for twenty years, her friend and consoler in time of trouble, and with whom for years she'd worked as a Sunday School teacher, refused to help her. After the letter was delivered, she went to the vicarage to see Mr. Tyson, but his solicitor turned her out. Matthews suggested to the jury that, had she been allowed to talk to the vicar - before her mouth was closed in the dock - she could have explained her situation and her despair and that she had never intended to impute anything reflecting upon his character.

Baron Channell admitted the jury had two very different versions of events. The letter had been “imprudently parted with” and, without it, its full contents were unknown. It was a serious charge against Mrs. Barlow; one that would come with a lengthy jail term if she was convicted. The jurymen, "after a brief consultation," acquitted her.  

The verdict left the entire sordid matter unresolved. In Wolstanton, 400 parishioners signed a statement offering their support to Mr. Tyson "for his considerable annoyance of late." Their confidence remained unabated in his ministry and character. In his grateful reply, the vicar admitted "the only consolation remaining to me is a clear conscience before my Almighty Master." The Rev. John Tyson remained at St. Margaret's, Wolstanton, until his death four years later. There is a memorial to his memory in the church today. 

For this Christmas, consider this collection of stories of Victorian clergymen and their predicaments.

"I Will Beat You No More"

St. Mary the Virgin, Flitcham

Flitcham is a small village in West Norfolk, "lying in a picturesque valley.” Sounds lovely but when the new vicar, the Rev. Bryan O’Malley, arrived in 1873, he came to an impoverished parish and his church of St. Mary the Virgin in a dilapidated condition. Flitcham is on the Sandringham Estate, then well known as the country seat of "Bertie," Prince of Wales. It infuriated O'Malley that his 'umble flock worshipped in a derelict pile while the Prince's splendid church (St. Mary Magdalene) was rarely used. Bertie's guests slept in on Sundays, exhausted from their “balls and dances, sporting and general frolicking and affected grandeur.” 

Not a man to suffer quietly, O'Malley badgered his Bishop, the local gentry and then, "a mad Irishman with a shillelagh," he walked hundreds of miles across East Anglia begging. By 1880, the needed repairs were made, "by the exertions of the present incumbent who literally tramped the country for the purpose."

Understandably, praise poured in for the doughty Rev. O’Malley. Alas, his private life was a disaster. In 1872, he had married Frances Keppel, a clergyman’s daughter. The Keppels, of course, were an historic Norfolk family of great achievements – in the church, the navy and in the peerage. Mrs. O'Malley would later claim that she and her husband quarreled from the outset of their marriage, usually about money. He was obsessed with raising funds for his church but not with feeding his growing family. The O'Malleys soon had several children, to the point the clergyman "prayed to God to give me no more." Their quarrels were frequently violent. Servants told stories of how husband and wife threw anything to hand at one another, knives, hot water, plates, even barnyard “detritus.” Mrs. O'Malley left him finally but returned when he promised in writing, "I will beat you no more." She even wrote the Bishop saying everything was going to be fine in Flitcham. Of course, it wasn't. The entente cordiale was, predictably, short-lived. A few months later, on 21 November 1880, after a night's snowfall, O'Malley ordered his wife and children to leave the vicarage. The five O'Malleys – without sufficient clothing for the weather, trudged several miles through the snow to the nearest church at Hillington where the rector, the Rev. Mr. Ffolkes, took them in. 

The public scandal had gotten out of hand. In 1881, Mrs. O'Malley sought a judicial separation. In Divorce Court, she described her marriage as "a story of continual ill-treatment with periods of happiness." She was supported by numerous witnesses, including some of the children. No witnesses came forward to defend Rev O’Malley who took the stand on his own behalf. He described their marriage as a "love match," which was greeted with laughter and jeers. He admitted to having “hot Irish blood” but his wife was an extremely difficult woman herself. She resented bitterly O'Malley's lowly position. She, after all, was a Keppel and he was nothing. But her marriage vows were clear: "for better or worse." On that snowy night, Rev O'Malley insisted he didn’t order his family away or lock the door behind them. He did not prevent them from getting proper winter cloaks. She left on her own. He heard her say, "Come along, children." She just wanted to put on a scene; it was more of her "airs." 

After the vicar's counsel closed his final argument, the jury foreman said they didn't need to hear from Mrs. O'Malley's Q.C. They had made up their minds: Mrs. Frances O’Malley had indeed been the victim of repeated acts of personal violence and was, in their opinion, deserving of the protection of a judicial separation and custody of her four children. Justice Hannen agreed and made the appropriate rulings.

The Rev Bryan O'Malley remained in Flitcham, alone in his vicarage, although his conduct became more and more eccentric. In 1898, he was arrested for being drunk in the streets of Kings Lynn. The following year, the Bishop of Norwich formally deprived him of his Flitcham benefice and "all its emoluments" (however meager). He died in 1909. His wife long outlived him; Frances O'Malley survived until 1931. 

Finally, we should note that Queen Elizabeth II has, on occasion, come across the fields from Sandringham to worship at the recently restored Flitcham Parish Church. What would old O’Malley have made of that? The story of the Rev O'Malley was previously published in Blame it on the Norfolk Vicar (Halsgrove 2008).

As Mysterious as it is Tragical.

"A more secluded spot could hardly have been chosen," all were agreed when the bodies of the Rev Alfred Ernest Constable and his wife of just two months were discovered in Derbyshire. The sinuous River Derwent flows south through the county on its way to join the Trent. In Burley Hill, a village some little way north of Derby, Samuel Raines farmed some land running down to the Derwent. From his home, on Saturday, 22 June 1895, he saw something "black" on the bank but paid it no mind. Sunday morning, he put his field classes on it and decided to investigate. Farmer Raines came upon the body of a woman lying on the ground. She appeared to have been pulled out of the water and covered with a greatcoat; her head was resting on a clergyman's hat. The farmer went for a constable and the two men, believing "there's got to be a man around somewhere," soon located the second body, face down in about three feet of water. The bodies were taken by cart to the Red Cow public house in Allestree for an inquest. The story soon to be revealed was "as mysterious as it is tragical."

St. Mary's
Burley-in Wharfedale

The Rev. Mr. Constable was identified by a soaked packet of visiting cards found in his pocket. He was not yet thirty; he'd been ordained in 1890 after leaving university in Durham where he was an excellent and popular student, famous for his feats of athleticism, more remarkable because he had been totally blind since a childhood disease. He spent three years as a curate at St. Mary's, Burley-in-Wharfedale, near Leeds. He was then assigned to Thornton Watlass, a remote village in North Yorkshire but he returned to Burley frequently to continue his acquaintance Miss Mary Ellen Naylor, whose family of considerable means resided at Elmgrove. Mr. Constable was delighted then when he was called to be curate in Guiseley, Wharfedale, where by the rector of St. Oswald, he was married to Miss Naylor on 23 April 1895. They left for their honeymoon in the Channel Islands.

Whilst they were away, however, "the tongue of scandal had connected their names with indiscretion before marriage." The Bishop of Ripon had been presented with enough information to suspend the Rev. Mr. Constable and to expect the young clergyman to defend himself upon his return to the diocese.

The police determined the Constables spent their last night at an inn in Worcester and had purchased railroad tickets for Leeds but they got off the train in Derby. They walked up the Duffield Road and along the river until they found a suitable location. Near the woman's body on the bank were found two earthenware cups and an empty packet, the cover, in large red letters, read: INFALLIBLE VERMIN DESTROYER. Dr. Ernest Davis of Derby reported that the gentleman died from drowning, although he had taken some of the poison, made up mostly of strychnine. Perhaps he had fallen into the water. The woman died from the poison. She had been in the water but apparently carried out, placed on the bank and covered with the coat. There was great excitement when the doctor added that his postmortem further revealed that "had she lived, she would at no distant period have become the mother of a male child." She had been married just eight weeks.

The father of the deceased, also a clergyman, headmaster of Thorne Grammar School in Doncaster, had arrived. He described his son as given to fits of depression, but he had latterly seemed very happy. His wife seemed as happy as he was. The elder clergyman had never suspected Mary Ellen might have been in the family way. W Harvey Whiston, the coroner, declared it a pitiful tale. This young couple chose not to wait until their marriage and their "great trouble" would soon be made clear by her confinement. They could not face the scorn, the shame brought on their friends and the likely end of Rev. Constable's clerical career. Thus, they were induced to commit this rash act, with no evidence of careful advance planning. Therefore, he ruled their deaths were due to suicide during a state of temporary insanity. The jury followed Mr. Whiston's instructions. 

A short time after the inquest, the bodies of the Rev and Mrs. Constable were laid to rest in Allestree. The burial of suicides remained controversial; the verdict of "temporary insanity" allowed for some leniency. The services in Derbyshire were "of the quietest character," attended only by the dead man's father and two brothers of the late Mrs. Constable. She was 24.

NEW: Peter Grinham of the Burley Local History & Archive Group has kindly shared with me some new research on this double tragedy done by Andy Thurman of Allestree. Mr Thurman has an alternative theory. He believes this wasn't a double-suicide. "I think the strychnine was intended to induce a termination. Hence Mary Ellen was partly in the river. It went wrong and she died so (Rev Constable) committed suicide." Remember, however, two china cups were found at the scene. That doesn't rule out Thurman's theory. Mysterious and tragical it remains. There is more at https://www.facebook.com/groups/711412013140436/posts/751924715755832 

The Besieged Clergyman

In the late 18th century, a guidebook to Kent asserted, “the village of Cowden has nothing worth notice in it.” The church of St. Mary Magdalene was described as tiny and “mean,” and the spire is “notably crooked.” The wealthy Harvey family of Tunbridge were longtime patrons of the church. Their son, the Rev. Thomas Harvey, became rector in 1785 and served fifty years until his death, followed by his son, a second Rev. Thomas Harvey who was the rector for another 43 years until his death in 1878. When the old rector finally shuffled off, in his will, he exercised his right as the parish patron, to present the rectory to his son, the Rev. Henry Gordon Harvey. The appointment was worth £600 a year. Such designations were, however, subject to the approval of the diocesan bishop. It was rarely a problem. Unfortunately, the Archbishop of Canterbury “absolutely refused” to even consider the Rev. Henry Gordon Harvey. 

Rev. Harvey, the son and grand-son of such respected men, had been educated at Trinity College, Cambridge and ordained in 1853. He never held any official church position during the 25 clerical years that passed while he waited for his father to die and to succeed to the family pulpit. Instead, he acquired some property and did a spot of gentleman farming on 130 acres near Godalming.

Part of the reason for the Rev. Harvey’s clerical inactivity was illness related. He had been very ill with fever in 1858, requiring constant care. It was then he met Martha Anne Bulbeck, a nurse from Brighton. As she nursed the young clergyman to health, they formed a romantic relationship which would lead eventually to three illegitimate children, only one still living at the time of this story. The Rev. Harvey and Martha were finally married, if quietly, at St. Dunstan’s in the West, Fleet Street, in 1869. Since the marriage, while residing in Godalming, they had three more children.

Following his father’s death, Rev. Harvey submitted the required particulars to the Archbishop. He presented the required written testimonials from four clergymen of the diocese. In response to some gossip, Rev. Harvey assured the Archbishop’s secretary that he had married his wife as soon as possible after their first “connexion.” He had most certainly not lived with his wife before that marriage and none of his children were illegitimate. Without a great deal of effort, these statements were found to be false. The Archbishop, the Most Rev. A.C. Tait, announced that he would refuse to permit the Rev. Mr. Harvey to become the rector of Cowden, citing the immoral life that he had led and his “misleading statements” regarding his marriage. 

Joined by his aged mother who stood by him, the Rev. Mr. Harvey sued the Archbishop in civil court. Under the Clergy Discipline Act of the day, any moral charges against a clergyman had to be brought within two years of the date of the alleged offense. His “offense” had taken place over ten years in the past and, certainly, he had purged that immorality by his marriage and blameless life since. Harvey conceded that he had kept that early relationship a secret to spare a blameless woman from disgrace. Harvey also presented a statement claiming the support of 94 out of the 100 parishioners of St. Mary Magdalene.

The church countered by calling two of the clergymen who had signed those testimonials. One of them, Rev. Harvey’s own cousin, testified that he had been misled. Had he known the truth he would not have written the letter. The case was heard without a jury by Lord Chief Justice Coleridge in 1879 who quickly found for the Church. 

The Rev. R. Abbey Tindall from Manchester was announced as the new rector of Cowden in 1880 but the handover did not go well. The Rev. Harvey left the rectory taking with him several “titles and other documents” the church wanted back. He refused to surrender them. By 1883, he was living in Dover, where he locked himself and his family in his home. Food was passed to them through a window. Harvey refused to admit the Sheriff of Kent who presented an order for that paperwork. “The besieged clergyman” wrote to the local papers warning that, should the authorities try to break in, he had “a revolver in readiness.” In 1884, a court upheld the tradition that an Englishman's home is his castle and the sheriff did not have the authority to break down doors and would have to find some other way to proceed. 

Somehow it was all settled. The Rev. Tindall spent many years in Cowden, “one of the most charmingly situated parishes in Kent.” The Rev. Henry Gordon Harvey died elsewhere in Kent in 1908.

 

The Perplexing Situation of the Rev Henry White.

Vanity Fair (26 Dec 1874)

In 1890, the Rev. Henry White was named chaplain to the House of Commons. A "cheery gentleman," White was one of London's best-known and most popular clergymen and the incumbent of the Chapel Royal, Savoy. He performed innumerable weddings being a special favourite of the acting profession. White was 57, unmarried himself, and lived in splendid rooms in Lancaster Place overlooking the Thames. He lived well, moved in the best circles and was known to be "fond of Brighton and the Grand Hotel." So, what was a washerwoman doing with his very-expensive gold watch?

Mr. Tattle, a suspicious pawnbroker in the Kensal Road, told police that 21 year old Eliza Hilborn brought the watch to his shop. The watch-back was engraved: "From his Chapel Royal congregation. Presented in token of their respect and admiration. Christmas Day 1864.” A constable was summoned. The watch was taken to the Rev. White who identified it as his and said it had been stolen by pickpockets on the Underground. In Marylebone Police Court, however, the young lady's story was quite different.

Miss Hilborn, who appeared quite frightened, said she met a man near Paddington Station. They got to talking and, as will happen, they went to a private hotel in Praed Street where they ordered coffee and a room. They dallied pleasantly until the man realised he was about to miss his train for Willesden and bolted for the station, forgetting his watch. "The accused" insisted she'd done her best to trace the owner but without success. Rev. White identified the watch as his but insisted he was certainly not the man in her story. "Don't you know me, sir," Eliza interrupted. "No, I never saw you before," the clergyman responded. There was great excitement in the small room as the two exchanged sharp claims and denials. 

According to White's tale of the watch, he was riding the Underground in December. He was not a strong man and, in the heat and smoke - “overcome by the atmosphere” - he fell asleep. There were two men sitting very close to him. When he woke, they were gone and so was his watch. He always presumed they stole it. How Miss Hilborn got the watch, he could not say.    

The case was remanded for a week and with "everybody talking about the perplexing situation of the Rev Henry White," more than the usual number of reporters crowded the Marylebone police court. They met with disappointment. "While everybody expected an unusual sensation, it was hushed up and disposed of in a remarkably quick manner.” The magistrate (Cooke) said the recent history of this handsome watch was unknowable with any certainty. Miss Hilborn's version might be true but she very likely misidentified the Rev. White. To proceed against her would require the clergyman to face serious questions on the witness stand. In the public interest, Cooke would dismiss all charges and the presentation watch was re-presented to Rev. White who left the building "beaming affably."

A few months later, having spent some time traveling on the continent, Rev. White returned to London. He died suddenly in October, from a heart attack in bed. His doctor told the inquest that he'd warned his patient about the risks of overwork. He was buried in Brompton Cemetery. A bust was commissioned for a memorial in the Chapel Royal. The Rev. Henry White was much lamented, the Queen included; HRH considered him her favourite preacher.

An Odious Accusation

Banham is a small picturesque Norfolk village known for its cider-making. St. Mary the Virgin, the 14th century church, is celebrated for its magnificent spire. A late Victorian restoration was done by the longtime rector, the Rev John George Fardell M.A. Included were stained glass windows in his late wife's memory. 

As was common, the local clergyman headed the school board. Thus, in 1888, Rev. Fardell had the duty to sack the schoolmaster who'd been convicted in a police court of driving a horse & cart while drunk. It was a difficult thing to do. Rev Fardell had known Thomas Pawson for over 25 years. As a teenager, Pawson was an assistant teacher in the village school. The rector paid to send Pawson off to get his teacher's certificate and he'd been schoolmaster at Banham Commercial School for some time. He played on the village cricket and football sides and had lately married the church organist. 

Soon after the schoolmaster was let go, Rev. Fardell received a letter from Pawson threatening to reveal the rector's "great crimes" and demanding £300. "You began with your beastly habits 20 years ago in your own dining room. You have carried it on without intermission almost up to the present day." Pawson blamed his problems with drink on this alleged abuse which had ruined him in body and soul. The rector sent a letter back. He did not deny a thing but merely asked Pawson to reconsider. If the man went ahead with his threats, Fardell said he would address it from the pulpit and retire, for some time, from clerical work. Instead, Pawson sent a second note, again delivered by his wife, now demanding £1000 or he would expose the rector from one end of England to the other. Pay up and Pawson promised to go to Australia and "your heinous, hellish, bestial crime will be buried in oblivion."

One of the rector's sons was a solicitor and, on his advice, the East Harling magistrates summoned Pawson for sending letters contining an odious accusation and attempting to extort money thereby. The 78-year old clergyman appeared and admitted knowing the former schoolmaster. They had traveled together, to Lincoln and Yarmouth, staying at the same hotels. Pawson was a regular visitor to the rectory where he took tea and smoked cigars with his old friend. But the truth or falsity of Pawson's allegations was not before the court. Rev. Fardell was not on trial. The magistrates sent the case on to the Norwich Assizes.

Some weeks later, in the Norfolk Shirehall, Pawson plead guilty, blaming his actions on drink and regretting everything from the bottom of his heart. Justice Denman said decent people must be protected from such “dreadful accusations.” Pawson's crime was worthy of a life sentence but, on a recommendation for mercy, the defendant would serve a term of six years. In his book Sexual Blackmail (2002), Angus MacLaren said the courts typically came down harshest on those who attempted to extort from clergymen, doctors, solicitors - professional men with reputations to protect. "The law protected the wealthy from the poor and men from boys." Mrs. Pawson, who had delivered the letters to the rectory and called Mr. Fardell "a cursed man," had also been charged but she was not prosecuted. 

The Rev. Mr. Fardell remained in Banham for another five years; he retired to the Isle of Wight where he died in 1899. He's buried in Banham, St. Mary's churchyard, and there are numerous memorials to the rector and his family in the old church today.

I refer you to the newly published collection of clerical stories, How the Vicar Came and Went.

"The Curate and the Farmer's Boy"

The ancient church of St. Mary the Virgin in the Wiltshire village of Winterbourne Gunner is "delightfully situated" on the east bank of the River Bourne. A Victorian visitor described it as a beautiful church, "if only in its simplicity." It was there in 1887, that a new curate arrived, the Rev Robert Alexander Morgan, just ordained at Durham. The rectory was very near the church, but over a footbridge to the west bank of the river, opposite Manor Farm, where lived John Blake Sutton and his large family. 

It was a small village and, for some reason, the curate and the farmer did not mesh. On a summer's evening that August, the Rev. Morgan was returning from the Post Office along the "public road" when someone threw a stone over a hedge nearly hitting him. The curate scrambled up an embankment and chased down three little boys: 8-year old Charles Sutton, his brother Albert (there were seven Suttons) and William Hill. Who threw the stone, the curate demanded? William grassed, "Charlie, you better tell the truth." Charlie admitted he was the guilty party. 

The next day, the Rev Morgan wrote an extraordinary letter that was soon published in hundreds of newspapers. 

"Dear Sir (he addressed it to Mr. Sutton) As I passed up the road yesterday evening, a stone was thrown over the hedge at me by one of your boys. I shall not tolerate such conduct, and after the demonstration of your own profound ignorance and want of breeding on last Saturday, I have decided that if you will not teach your boys better manners, I shall."

Morgan demanded an apology within seven days or he would instruct his counsel to bring a case to the magistrates.

"You should bear in mind,' his letter continued, 'that there is a great gulf between your position and mine and if you do not teach your children how to conduct themselves properly, you must, like other parents similarly situated, take the consequences."  

No apology was forthcoming and, on 23 August, the remarkable assault case was heard in Salisbury, just a stone's throw away. (Sorry) The Rev. Morgan recounted his experience of the evening of 9 August. He narrowly escaped serious injury. He was able to capture his assailants and "the defendant" admitted being the perpetrator of the deed. Asked to explain his letter to the boy's father, Morgan said it was "no stronger than what Mr. Sutton deserved." 

William Hill, one of "the Winterbourne Gunner Three" was called. He admitted seeing Charlie throw the stone but he wasn't throwing it at anyone. Boys throwing stones, it was, nothing more, swore young William. The magistrates agreed and dismissed the charges. By way of chastening Mr. Morgan for his feelings of superiority, the curate was ordered to pay farmer Sutton's solicitor's bill of £1, 1s.

The story of "The Curate and the Farmer's Boy" was in  papers across Britain, and the curate's "singular letter" much commented upon. The verdict was generally approved although it was hoped that "this early visit to the magistrates will not turn Master Charles into a hardened offender, and that he will, in future, be careful to look before he throws stones." 

The Rev. Morgan remained in the Bourne Valley for another year or so before emigrating to Australia. 

Not a Creditable Affair for a Clergyman

The 13th century church of St. Peter stands in Deene Park, the Brudenell estate in Northamptonshire. The Brudenells were patrons of many churches in the area. The most famous in that family line, of course,  was the 7th Earl of Cardigan, hero of the Charge of the Light Brigade. While his Lordship was leading his "noble six hundred" into "the jaws of death," the rector of his church was keeping a mistress in London. 

This all came to light in 1856 when there was a disturbance at 98 York Road in Lambeth. A gentleman named Harris explained in police court that he wished to charge Miss Jane Oakford with stealing a gold watch and other appendages. Miss Oakford replied that the items were hers; they were gifts, she had been his mistress for two years. The magistrate might also wish to know that Mr. Harris was actually Rev Harris, a clergyman of the Church of England. Harris suddenly chose to drop the charges. It seems the falling out between the lovers began when Rev Harris told Jane that he was getting married; she did not take the news well. The books were closed on the fracas. “Thus has ended this delicate, though to a clergyman, not creditable affair.” 

The word of the unseemly incident in London reached the Bishop of Peterborough who urged Harris to clarify matters. The rector of Deene, now the newlywed husband of Miss Susannah Nye, went back to Lambeth to deny Miss Oakford was ever his mistress and that all such reports were “very detrimental to his character.” Two days later, Miss Oakford - described as “a person of ladylike manners,” reappeared with her lawyer. She brought with her many letters, a signed passport for "Mr. Oakford & wife," and the bill from a Paris hotel, for a room with just the single bed. Again, Harris opted to withdraw from the field. 

Lord Cardigan's own private life was hardly exemplary. He was probably quite forgiving. The Bishop not so much, to be sure. Nonetheless, the Rev. Mr. Harris managed to hold on to his rectory, although he left almost of the clerical duties to a curate. He remained rector of Deene and Corby until his death in 1872. 

The church at Deene is redundant now. The Brudenells still live in the hall. The massive tomb and memorial to Lord Cardigan can be seen in the church on open days. 

Please check out my new collection of clerical stories in HOW THE VICAR CAME AND WENT.

The Runaway Vicar

 "There is prevailing in English society a refined poverty of a class to which public attention is being directed with a view to its alleviation." By the late Victorian years, the numbers of impoverished clergymen was growing. One such reverend gentlemen was the Rev Hugh Courtenay Downman, vicar of the church of Sts Peter & Paul in Easton Maudit, a "small but pleasant" village in Northants. 

On Good Friday 1899, Mr. Downman did not appear for the solemn services of Holy Week. There were reports that he'd been seen boarding a train for London at Wellingborough. Downman had only been in the village a brief time; much of his clerical career had been abroad at various chaplaincies, from China to Barcelona. He had married the widow of a British officer out in India. Poor Mrs. Downman was pitied by all, abandoned by her husband while bailiffs circled the parsonage. 

Three weeks passed before Downman returned to the village. According to numerous published reports, the "runaway vicar" received a "lively but discordant reception" from his "neglected and indignant flock." The vicar was serenaded with the usual "rough music" of villagers banging pots and pans, showing their disgust by creating a general din. The Telegraph reported that the members of the small congregation had begged their bishop to remove Downman and a new vicar was being sought for Easton Maudit. 

Downman had come home newly determined to retain his position; he had been appointed to the parish by the Marquis of Northampton. To get his financial affairs in order; Downman submitted himself to the bankruptcy court. He also filed a series of libel suits against the newspapers which had reported on his departure and skulking return.

In London before Justice Grantham, Downman explained that his parish was very poor, providing him with about £110 per year. The resulting financial and domestic troubles left him practically unhinged. Therefore, in "temporary aberration," he left the day before Good Friday. He had not abandoned his wife but regularly communicated with her and, on her appeal, he returned. There was no such demonstration as the papers had reported, maybe a few village lads with tin whistles, no more. The Bishop had not replaced him. 

The united newspapers in the dock employed excellent counsel, claiming the suit was a simple money grab by the desperate clergyman hoping to pay his bills. Downman admitted that, despite his penury, he had recently purchased a new dog cart and drawing room furniture. He denied dipping into the village "clothing fund" which he managed. As for his devoted wife, Downman conceded that - without her private means - matters would have been much worse. She was the security for many of his debts yet he left her without warning, meaning his creditors would have come after her. Downman said he was so "mentally upset" at the time, he was not responsible for his actions. Had she told him that she would lend him no more money? She had. 

There was much discussion of the noise that greeted the vicar's return, if a village of 100 souls could create that much disturbance. Downman insisted he heard no more than a few whistles. Even that, he denounced as "a monstrous, un-Christian thing to do to a man in trouble."

The jury of Londoners had heard enough from this impecunious rustic cleric and told the judge they wished to give their verdict to the defendants. The Rev Downman remained in Easton Maudit without any notable issues until 1904. He and his forgiving wife returned to the continent where life was always more affordable. 

"Meet me tonight"

There is "no other place in the kingdom" such as "the Rows" of Yarmouth, declared Henry Manship in his history of the coastal town. Running east-west, from the River Yare toward the North Sea, resembling a gridiron, the 145 narrow rows were home to hundreds of sea-faring folk and the "general poor." In 1840, Ann Laws resided there, in Row 99, sometimes known as Castle Row. She lived with her husband James, a sailmaker. 

Ann had been to the market on a July Saturday and when she returned home, she found in her basket, a note. “Meet me tonight about nine or half-past-nine between Penrice’s and the beach.” The note was unsigned and unaddressed; she had no idea who placed it in her basket or when. She showed it to James and he bid her to keep that appointment whilst he kept himself some little distance away. 

The Penrice Arms was at the end of Row 99, on King Street. That summer night, the Yarmouth streets and rows were full. Mrs. Laws, in her bonnet, followed the note's instructions. At the approximate hour, she was approached by no less a figure than the Rev Mark Waters of St. George's, King Street. He spoke to her for several minutes but her husband was not able to hear over the general activity in the area. Mrs. Laws, however, told her spouse that she had indignantly rejected the clergyman's indecent requests. 

The Rev. Waters was 34, born in Yarmouth, married and with a young family. His church, St. George's, held more than 1000 souls. Thus, this little story that spread through the rows would not go away. It soon reached the ears of the Bishop of Norwich. The Rev. Waters did not deny speaking to Mrs. Laws that evening but nothing else she stated was true. There was considerable interest, of course, and Mr. Waters was the subject of ribald abuse in some Yarmouth quarters. At last, the following April, an ecclesiastical inquiry was held before three clergyman to determine whether Mr. Waters had "solicited the chastity" of Ann Laws. 

This churchly probe was held in an old inn, The Bear, in Southtown. The accused was not permitted to speak in his own defense. The belief being, that in such a case, even a clergyman would be tempted to lie. Mrs. and Mr. Laws were closely questioned. She spoke of finding the note in her basket and the plan she and her husband conceived to discover the sender. She was shaken to find out it was a clergyman. She told the churchmen she did not know Rev Waters, had never met him in her life. But her own elderly mother contradicted her. In fact, all the evidence was of “a very conflicting and contradictory character.” Several of their neighbours from the Rows spoke diffidently of the accusers' characters.

The numerous press accounts did not include any details on the improper proposals Mr. Waters allegedly made to Ann Laws. Why did she deny knowing him? Had they met before? There was no published suggestion that Mr. Laws had tried to entrap or blackmail the clergyman. Mr. Laws insisted he acted only after his wife had been insulted. The proceedings were lengthy, the meeting room filled with locals of the first rank and numerous clergy. In the end, the empaneled clergymen met privately for one hour, then issued their statement: Although the inquiry found the clergyman’s conduct “highly objectionable," the evidence was insufficient to send the matter to the Bishop for a full consistory court. 

Despite the rather mixed decision, the Rev Mr. Waters left the Bear, cheered by his many supporters. The verdict was generally accepted, having "effectively changed the impression" of Mr. Waters' in Yarmouth. He remained at St. George's until his death in 1864. The old church is now a theatre.

The newly published collection of stories, How the Vicar Came and Went, is now available from Amazon.

The Rector's Round from The Half Moon

 

In December 1885, PC Frank Scarterfield of the Surrey Constabulary spent a long cold night - and morning - in the remote village of Charlwood. "Embosomed in the woods," reached only by occasionally impassable lanes, Charlwood was normally a quiet place. The beautiful 11th Century church of St. Nicholas stood in the center of the village with a large rectory, then occupied by the Rev. Edward McFarlane Gibson. Right over The Street was the old public house, The Half Moon.

With much to do on a Sabbath morning, the Rev. Mr Gibson retired at 11 p.m. on Saturday, 12 December. Just about that time, last calls having been served, The Half Moon emptied out into the darkness. There had been a proper "knees up" that night, indeed. The raucous crowd stumbled about, mostly merry, but there were a few scuffles. PC Scarterfield, who policed these bosky lanes with his faithful collie, tried to shepherd the legless lot home. Without success and the PC heard enough backtalk that eventually 8 men were summonsed for being drunk and disorderly, including the publican, Fred Brown.

Even in 1885, there was a lot of paperwork when eight men were nicked. The sun was up by the time the constable thought he might get to his own bed. Then, just past 8:00, on a Sunday morning, he saw a young maid from The Half Moon scuttling over the road to the rectory lugging a large sack, in which the sharp-eared PC heard the unmistakable clink of bottles. He ordered the lass to stop and open her pack - a quick look inside revealed six of the familiar red triangles of Bass Ale. She said the rector had ordered a case of ale but she would have to make two trips. Brown, the hungover publican, was awakened and handed a new summons: selling liquor at unauthorised hours other than to bonafide travelers.

At the Surrey Petty Sessions in Reigate, the Rev. Mr. Gibson appeared in defense of Mr. Brown. The rector said he had ordered the beer and paid for it on Saturday. But it was a boisterous day in the pub and they had forgotten to deliver the case. Mrs. Brown, up early Sunday to get the inn back in order, saw the case behind the bar and sent the girl over with it straightaway. The magistrates, to their great credit, took the word of a clerk in holy orders and the charge was dismissed. They even scolded PC Scarterfield for his "injudiciousness" in bringing such a charge.

Two weeks later, in the same courtroom, the Rev. Gibson was back on the stand. He testified that on that Saturday night he'd been in bed just over the road from The Half Moon and did not really hear the drunken disturbance for which the eight Charlwood men were in the dock. Questioned by the PC, the rector admitted that some of the hedges in the churchyard had been damaged. There was a red spill, probably wine, on the footpath. He had no idea how any of it happened and again he'd slept through most of it anyway. It was another disappointing day for the constable; it wasn't quite as bad as he'd portrayed it. "The Charlwood Eight" were fined 10s apiece. 

Geograph.Org.UK

Charlwood isn't such a quiet place today, not a mile or two from the runways at Gatwick. (Some of the ancient Gatwycks still live in the area.) The Half Moon remains, a "hidden gem" according to one of the pub guides. The Rev Gibson was rector at St. Nicholas until his death in 1913. Surely, he enjoyed a Bass or two at the local. 

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Gypsy, Soldier, Sailor, Surgeon and now a Clergyman

Ten year old Mary Ann Gladwell was a thatcher's daughter in Rattlesden, Suffolk. To help the family, she worked in a farmer's wheatfield. One day in March 1838, she came home complaining of pain in her knee and ankle. There also lived in Rattlesden the Rev John Heigham Steggall, a curious clergyman, the perpetual curate at nearby All Saints church in Great Ashfield. 

Steggall kept a "little shop" in Rattlesden where he practiced a bit of medicine, pulling teeth, midwifery and the like. He'd picked up the knowledge as a boy on whaling ships and in India. Steggall examined Mary Ann and diagnosed her pains as the result of a fractured ankle which he "violently" reset. Then, using the two hard covers from a Bible as splints, he wrapped her ankle in wet calico. 

The girl did not improve. Her parents became quite concerned. Removing the Bible pieces, Steggall discovered large blisters which he pricked and drained "a teacup full." He prepared various poultices - including one of bread and turnips. The Gladwells eventually took their daughter to see Mr. White, a surgeon in Gedding who determined there was nothing for it but to amputate the leg at the knee. Surgeons in Stowmarket carried it out.

At the 1839 Lenten Assizes in Ipswich, the Gladwells sued the Rev Steggall for malpractice resulting in the loss of their child's income. The jury heard the history of poor Mary Anne's leg. She came to court on her "stilts", of course. A surgeon who had examined the child's limb after the surgery said there was never a fracture. He produced the bones for all to see. The doctor testified that there was infection in the ankle that had ulcerated; Steggall had displayed gross ignorance. 

The medical profession of Suffolk was well aware of the 50-year old Steggall's "practice" and there had been a lively controversy predating this "unfortunate calamity." Steggall's lawyer said his client had done his best but professional jealousy was behind the lawsuit. He also accused Mary Anne's parents of a "mercenary and vile" attempt to profit from their daughter's injury. The jury disagreed and quickly returned a verdict for the parents with damages of £10. 

Steggall remained a legendary character in the area, helped by his biography, published in 1856, The Suffolk Gipsy. Containing the Real History of John H. Steggall, Who Has Been a Gipsy, a Sailor, a Soldier, a Surgeon, and is Now a Clergyman of the Church of England.

Speaking of books, the new collection of Victorian clerical scandals, How the Vicar Came and Went, is available exclusively from Amazon. Thank you.

A Rector's Perambulation in Regent Street

Just after midnight on a cold January evening in 1872, a pair of London constables began following two gentlemen who appeared to be touring the "public conveniences" of Regent Street. They shadowed the pair as they made their way through Burlington Mews, Heddon Street, Vine Street, Swallow Street, and Glasshouse Street. After some little time on the tour, the constables decided to arrest the men for "frequenting public urinals for an unlawful purpose." At the Great Marlbourough Street magistrates court, the lead officer justified his suspicions because one of the men, residing in Manchester Square, was a "known frequenter." The public was much more concerned to learn the second gentleman nicked that morning was the Rev. William Dawson MA, the recently arrived rector of St John's, Clerkenwell. 

The "Extraordinary Charge Against a Clergyman" was heard several days later by which time Mr Dawson had employed counsel who came to court with an impressive collection of testimonials as to the character of his client. The rector of Clerkenwell was 36, unmarried, new to London,  and eager to explore. He brought with him to the great city his "country habit" of talking nocturnal walks. While the alleys off Regent Street were less leafy and wholesome than the lanes of Suffolk, a man must take his walks as he finds them. In no way was he associated with or in the company of the other gentleman, a man he did not know. The magistrate was then presented with effusive statements from the Bishop of Carlisle, Lord Hatherly - the patron of Clerkenwell - and numerous other clergymen, united in their opinion that Mr. Dawson was a man of "saintly purity." 

The policemen held to their stories. They were sure of what they had seen; although the details were reserved as unfit for publication. Under firm questioning, however, "little discrepancies" in their accounts were revealed. Mr. Knox, the magistrate, called it one of the most painful cases to ever come before him. That said, and with no imputations intended against the watchers of the night, Knox was going to release the Rev. Mr. Dawson. The police must have misread his conduct on the night in question. Given the character references, there seemed to be no way the clergyman could have been involved in the horrid actions alleged.

The Rev Mr. Dawson remained at St John's for more than two decades and authored a history of the parish in 1891. By far a more celebrated story from Clerkenwell involved the Rev. Robert Maguire of St James who was accused of grossly insulting a young woman in a railway carriage. You can read about "The Clergyman's Wayward Foot" in my new collection of Victorian clerical scandals, How the Vicar Came and Went, available NOW.