"She never more will return."

“If there be any man to whose happiness marriage is more necessary than to that of another, it is a country clergyman.” Trollope wrote that in The Bertrams, one of his many novels that chronicled the Victorian clerical world. Certainly, it was always for the best when marital harmony reigned in the village rectory, if only as an example. In the course of human events, however, it is not always possible. 

One Sunday morning in August 1871, the Rev Richard Hull, longtime rector of All Saints, in the Bedfordshire village of Stondon, stood in the pulpit to announce that his wife of 25 years had gone to London. "She never more will return." In such a small place as Stondon (Upper and Lower), the news would not have been totally unexpected. The rector invited anyone who wished for an explanation to meet him in the vestry on an appointed night that coming week. 

James Long came out that evening. A man of considerable wealth & position, Long farmed more than a thousand acres in Henlow, a village some distance away. Though not a parishioner, his late brother had been a churchwarden in Stondon. The Longs, as a family, were clearly partisans for the absent Mrs. Hull. Before the vestry audience, Long asked the rector, "Are you aware" of the various bits of gossip in the village? Was it true that Mrs. Hull could no longer tolerate her husband's drinking and physical abuse? What of the rumours linking Mr. Hull with two village women, including a former servant. So rife was that talk, Long predicted the rector would likely be the victim of "rough music," the typical rustic way of taunting suspected adulterers. 

According to his Bishop, the rector's domestic unhappiness was no one's business and the vestry meeting had been a terrible mistake. However, with such serious accusations made public, Rev. Hull would have to answer them or resign. A slander action was filed against James Long. 

At the 1872 spring assizes at the County Hall in Aylesbury, the Rev. Mr. Hull stood in the witness box. He couldn't deny the latter years of his married life had been miserable. His wife neglected the proper running of their household, whilst her extravagance and love of fancy company far usurped his income. They quarreled frequently; she was “one of the worst tempered of her sex.” They had agreed a separation was for the best; he would continue to support her and the children. Hull believed Long's real intention was to have the rector removed and replaced by his own son "who plans to go into the church." Under cross-examination, Hull admitted he had struck his wife, once or twice. As he put it, "I boxed her ears." He denied being drunk several nights a week. In fact, he hadn't been drunk since 1839. He and Lucy Cooper, the former housemaid, now a married woman, were just old friends, she helped cleaning the church, etc. He did not know that some believed he was was the father of Lucy's first child. He most assuredly wasn't. As for being seen kissing a local woman named Ashby, Hull scoffed, "We're like brother and sister." 

The defendant, James Long, told the jury his entire role in Stondon was driven solely "out of pure friendship" for Rev. Hull. Personally, he didn't believe any of the gossip but the rector needed to know the rumours generated by his indiscreet conduct. It had gotten to the point that some of the locals were planning for "rough music," which in Stondon's version, would have involved pelting the rector with "dinosaur dung," from a local coprolite mine!  

After several hours of testimony, the jury foreman rose to say they had already formed their verdict. Apparently, Chief Baron Kelly had too. "If you think, as I do not hesitate to say that I think, that the object of the defendant was to induce the plaintiff to pursue a course which should not lead to the increase and exacerbation of these unpleasant rumours, then nothing that was said is actionable." The verdict for Long quickly followed. The courtroom was filled by locals who made the journey and cheered the result.

Despite Rev. Hull's courtroom defeat, the general takeaway was that all the rumours and gossip about his private life had been debunked. He returned to Stondon rectory. His first wife died rather suddenly. Waiting the proper interval, the rector remarried a solicitor's daughter. They soon had two young children capering about Stondon rectory where the Rev Mr. Hull remained until his death in 1890.

No dung was flung at Mr. Hull but other clergymen were treated to some "rough music." The Rev. Mr. Howes of Bracknell, for instance. For more, see my earlier published collection Clerical Errors, Volume 1. Only Kindle editions are available. Thank you.

"Dreadful Death of a Clergyman's Wife."

A furious 14th Century storm destroyed the coastal village of          Skinburness, on the Solway - the firth that separates Scotland and  Cumbria. The survivors relocated inland, to higher ground, in the straggling village of Newton Arlosh. Their new church was dedicated to St John the Evangelist. Ann Lingard, the Solway historian, has described it as a "tough-looking little church." Well it might have been. Besides the fickle weather, the marauding Scots were so close the church was built with walls seven feet thick. The main entry door was not but two feet wide. The area was not wealthy and the church fell into ruins until the 1840's when a local woman from Carlisle repaired and restored it.

Thus, in 1850, the Rev Robert Wightman arrived as the new Perpetual Curate. A brewer's son from Appleby, he had graduated from Cambridge. His elder brother - who spelled his name Weightman - was also a clergyman and had been a curate at the Bronte's vicarage in Yorkshire where he died, quite young.

Newton Arlosh was a remote and lonely place. In 1856, Rev. Wightman, then 38, married Harriet Glaister, a farmer's daughter from the local village of Botcherby. Mary Blair was their servant at the small parsonage. She thought they were a happy and loving couple although they drank altogether too much. Mary was the sole witness to the events of 5-6 May 1857. 

Tuesday had been another day of drinking and by three in the afternoon, husband and wife were well into their cups. At about ten that night, Mary brought in some bread and cheese. She found the Rev Mr. Wightman asleep on the couch. His wife was on her knees on the floor with her head face down in a chair. Mary tried to rouse her but the clergyman told her to go away. He did, however, plead with his wife, "Dear Harriett, will you not go to bed?" Mary Blairleft them alone but checked on the Wightmans again about three in the morning. They hadn't moved. At some point, she heard Mr. Wightman go to his room. Then, at about dawn, near to 7, the clergyman came in to the kitchen to tell her, "Mary, the mistress is dead." He sent no word to anyone but went back to his bed and bottle. 

At the inquest in Kirkbride, Dr. Hendrie from Carlisle spoke of some bruises he found on Harriet's throat but he believed they were not unlike those caused by natural suffocation. Mary Blair assured the inquiry she'd never seen any signs of quarrels or violence in the parsonage. Rev. Wightman was permitted to make a statement but it was described  as "unintelligible owing to his state of drunkenness." Some more kindly folk ascribed his condition to his obvious grief at the loss of his wife of just thirteen months. The coroner was left to rule the cause of death was suffocation caused by intoxication but he could not avoid commenting how painful it was to see a clergyman of the established church in such a condition. The Carlisle Journal's account was read across the country and few disputed the paper's summation: "What a melancholy spectacle. What a revelation of depravity and disgrace." 

In the Victorian period, there were many more clerical disciplinary actions resulting from alcohol abuse than from moral failings of any kind. Nonetheless, the scandal at such a remote place quickly faded. The Rev Mr. Wightman remained at Newton Arlosh while his drinking continued. By 1863, the Bishop of Carlisle ordered an inquiry into reports of his habitual drunkenness. The locals didn't seem unduly concerned; they thought he was a nice man albeit commonly "tipsy," "chatty" and often "smelling like a cask." Wightman did not attend the inquiry. In fact, when summoned, he could not be found. He seems to have simply left, disappearing from the clerical directories, and never to be heard from again. Any new information would be of great interest.

Please consider my newest collection of Victorian clerical stories now available at Amazon.

Illustration: visitcumbria.com

  

The Hampstead Prima Donna

The Rev Sherrard Beaumont Burnaby of Hampstead Parish Church was proud of his choir. He'd arrived at St. John's in 1873 and - under the leadership of James Shaw, a young man from Leeds, the choir, "commencing with a few rough boys only" had become celebrated for its "very high state of efficiency." 

All was harmonious in Hampstead until 1879 when the vicar clashed with Elizabeth Tocock, a parishioner of long-standing. (Mrs?) Tocock was in her mid-50's and had been a resident nurse/companion for a wealthy family in Holly Mount. She attended services regularly, morning and evenings. At first, her "incessant and tuneless singing" merely annoyed Rev. Burnaby. The clergyman's discreet emissaries got nowhere and Mrs. Tocock sang even louder and more off-key than heretofore. 

After meetings with his churchwardens, and consulting with the Bishop, Mr. Burnaby took a most unusual step. By ancient law, it was a crime to disrupt a church service; the official term was "brawling." Mrs. Elizabeth Tocock was given a summons to appear in Hampstead Police Court on 3 December 1879 to answer a charge that she had “unlawfully disturbed, vexed, troubled and disquieted” the vicar of St. John’s Parish Church. The Rev. Mr. Burnaby told the magistrates that he, along with the members of his choir, and indeed the greater part of his congregation, had exhausted their patience. “She makes the most shocking noise, which I suppose she would call singing, at the topmost pitch of her voice.” Her antics clearly unsettled the organist and choir as she sang at her own tardy pace. The vicar also pointed out that the nettlesome woman customarily took a seat no more than fifteen feet in front of the pulpit so as to be directly in his vision. The exasperated Mr. Burnaby said no one could conduct themselves in such a manner without intentionally wishing to annoy. 

Mr. Woodd Smith of Hampstead Heath, the local JP, was not an ardent churchgoer but fully sympathized with Mr. Burnaby’s plight. Whether Mrs. Tocock meant to do it or not, the law was plain: any conduct which hinders divine service is unlawful. If it was up to him, he would order her to pay a fine of £5 or spend two months in jail. The vicar had no wish to have "the diva" incarcerated. It was agreed to suspend matters for one month to see if Mrs. Tocock could control herself. As she left court, however, she told reporters, “I cannot worship if I cannot sing.”

The story of “the Hampstead Prima Donna” made all the papers. Mrs. Tocock, described as a “respectably dressed and apparently well-educated woman,” was not without supporters, especially among those who were dubious of elaborate rituals and music during services. A COUNTRY CLERGYMEN, cheered her on, "Dear Madam, I fear at the present time there are many who wish to convert our churches into mere places for hearing singing."

When her case was called again, there was general agreement that Mrs. Tocock was doing her best not to annoy. That must have been the end of it as the cacophonous woman vanishes from the annals of Hampstead lore. Only a few weeks later, 200 members of the London Church Choir Association gathered for a concert at the parish church. Mr. Shaw was at the organ; the programme included Gadesby’s “Not unto us, O Lord.” Mr. Burnaby’s silent prayer, no doubt.

For more tales of "vexed, troubled and disquieted" Victorian clergymen, How the Vicar Came and Went is now available from Amazon.

Sins of the Flesh

In 1841, the Bishop of London, the Right Rev. CJ Blomfield, consecrated the new church of St. Peter in de Beauvoir town, a planned suburb for the middle classes in Hackney, two miles north of the City. The prelate was also pleased to announce that the Hon. and Rev. Frederick Smyth Monckton was to be the perpetual curate of the new parish. The young clergyman certainly arrived with much to his favour. Only 30, he'd been ordained after his studies at Christ Church, Oxford. He was also the son of the late 5th and brother of the 6th Viscount Galway.

Rev. Monckton was unmarried and set up his small establishment in the Parsonage House in de Beauvoir square. People will talk, of course, when a young single cleric finds the need to employ three, sometimes more, young and comely female servants. When challenged, he snapped, "Damn, I'll have fifty if I want." The gossip continued; visitors to the parsonage reported the Rev. Monckton was most often to be found below stairs, in the kitchen, surrounded by his "maids," smoking, drinking and singing bawdy songs. Attendance at St. Peter's fell off; in his church that seated 1000 souls, no more than a handful, usually  including the clergyman's aged mother - were present to hear the Rev. Monckton's homily. 

By 1844, the churchwardens notified the bishop who ordered a Diocesan Commission of Inquiry - the first to be held under the new rules of clergy discipline. For several days, before a panel of deans and deacons, witnesses aired their stories about Mr. Monckton, delighting the press which printed full details in lengthy columns. One neighbours, with a commanding view of the parsonage garden, observed a questionable scene. "His female servants were there with him. His demeanour was familiar and indecorous. One of the servants when stooping to weed was not decent, her dress being elevated more than was proper before her master." The lead accusers were Mr. and Mrs. Williams, who had managed the parish school until falling out with Rev. Monckton. They were regular visitors to the parsonage, witnesses to many unseemly outbursts, including the clergyman passed out on the floor. By far, the most serious charge before the panel was fornication. One of the servants, Sarah Huggins, carried herself as "the lady of the house" in finery far above her station. The previous year, Miss Huggins had taken a "holiday," when - it was alleged and she did not deny - she gave birth to stillborn twins. The Rev. Monckton was identified as the "gentleman" who visited her frequently during her confinement.

Under the rules of the day, the Rev. Monckton could not testify. His lawyer labeled the charges an atrocious conspiracy; false and calumnious accusations led by the vengeful Williams' and others with ceaseless malevolence. Even Monckton's supporting witnesses conceded that life at the parsonage might be considered too rollicking for some but it was all in good fun. Nothing improper had taken place between the clergyman and his household. As for Sarah Huggins, she assured the panel Mr. Monckton was not the father of her two dead babies. She blamed a "seafaring man" she'd known only briefly. 

The commissioners took time to consider the evidence; the verdict was delivered by Dr. Lushington, the Vicar-General. They found no convincing evidence that Rev. Monckton was guilty of fornication or that he had taken any indecent liberties with "divers women." A charge of drunkenness also failed. However, "the conduct of Mr. Monckton with regard to the females residing in his family, and especially with regard to Sarah Huggins, was degrading to him as a clergyman of the Church of England, and had produced great scandal in the church." They would recommend to the bishop that some action be taken. 

Rev. Monckton was suspended for twelve months from 1 June 1845. Some thought the censure was too light. "A clergyman undoubtedly possesses some privileges; but these can never be supposed to extend to taking a brace of young girls on his knees, continually smoking cigars in their society, laying hold of them in an indecent manner, getting roaring drunk and singing bawdy songs, and indulging habitually in ribaldry and obscene language." 

The accused never resumed his duties in de Beauvoir town. His name disappeared from the annual clergy lists. He was just 50 when he died at Bath in May 1861, still identified as the the Hon. and Rev. Frederick Smyth Monckton.

How the Vicar Came and Went, a collection of Victorian clerical scandals, is now available at Amazon.  

The Black Sheep of Chipping Warden

(chippingwarden.org)

 Not far from Banbury, just over the   Oxfordshire border in Northants, lies   the quiet, "pleasantly situated" village   of Chipping Warden. On the village   green, visitors will find the splendid   medieval Church of Saints Peter and   Paul. For the last decade of the   Victorian period, the rector there - the Rev. Edward Henville M.A. - was denounced by his own bishops, and publicly labeled a disgrace to the Church of England. 

Henville's exact antecedents were shrouded in some mystery. He claimed to be a graduate of Trinity College, Dublin. He also claimed to have been ordained while out in India but he refused to name the Indian Bishop who admitted him to holy orders "for reasons of my own." Back in England, he spent several years as a curate before serving as vicar of Shelland & Gipping, impoverished rural parishes in Suffolk. There, he first drew attention for his "begging-letters." He pestered his wealthy correspondents with the pathetic story of a poor cleric unable to support his wife and ten children. The Bishop of Peterborough was moved to assure the public that Henville's story was highly embellished and to please ignore his letters. 

In 1889, Henville finally left East Anglia (and numerous unpaid tradesmen behind) for Chipping Warden. The Lord of the Manor in Chipping Warden was a Catholic and could not have anything to do with the village church. The living, therefore, was for sale. The laws of simony prevented a clergyman from buying his own church but Henville got around that through the generosity of a "Miss Henville of Stanton Hall, Lincoln." (A fine lady - if she existed at all.) There were no other bidders and Henville became rector of Chipping Warden, which came with about £200 a year, a commodious rectory and more than 100 acres of glebe land. 

Notwithstanding his elevated status, Henville's "impudent appeals" continued. Certainly, he was not the only practitioner of the scheme but few had such a system. His letters were professionally lithographed, making them, in effect, early spam. The letters were always the same. His eldest son was "hopelessly insane," the younger was (supposedly) maimed in a shooting accident. The rector asserted he'd been swindled and mistreated by the grandees of the Church of England. He could hardly support his eight daughters. In 1896, one of his unmarried daughters, at the age of 30, delivered a stillborn baby in the Chipping Warden rectory. The "sad affair" and ensuing public inquest added a new scandal to Henville's career. In fact, the rector monetised his daughter's shame by simply appending her plight to his printed list of grievances. 

Henry Labouchere, the editor of the Society weekly, Truth, had a special obsession with begging-letter writers. He singled Rev. Henville out as the worst of them all. "Here is a man who has for many years made a trade of writing lying appeals to wealthy ladies and others likely to be moved by a pathetic story of a starving parish priest. His true character is well known among his parishioners and among his neighbours. What scandal can be more shocking than the spectacle of such a man performing week by week the most sacred functions in the pulpit and at the altar?" That church superiors were unable to remove the "reverend mendicant [was] a scandal of the worst kind." It was Labouchere who dubbed Henville the "Black Sheep of Chipping Warden."

Only a week or so before Queen Victoria's death in 1901 ended her long reign, the Rev. Edward Henville died in his rectory. He was 60. He was replaced by the Rev Stephen Cartwright, son of a local baronet. The announcements noted that Chipping Warden parish had been "so long discredited by the incumbency of the late Rev. E. Henville."

Rev. Henville was not the only begging-letter writing clergyman. The Rev. Richard Marsh Watson, however, combined his money-raising schemes with a bit of blackmail. For more, see my book Clerical Errors: A Victorian Series, Volume Two. Thank you very much indeed.

"It's only me, Emma. I won't hurt you."

St. Swithin's, Wellow (geograph.org)

A modern guide book describes the small Notts village of Wellow as "chocolate-box pretty, an idyllic vision of rural England." The maypole on the village green is the tallest in England. The 12th century church of St. Swithin's welcomed a new vicar in 1858; the Rev Jermyn Patrick Royle, with his wife and four children, arrived in Wellow and settled in the vicarage over the road. 

Late in 1861, 17 year old Emma Ward, the servant at the vicarage, asked Mrs. Royle if she could go to the Wellow fete to watch the cricket on the green. Whether Mrs. Royle instructed Emma to come right home after the match or not, Emma went along to the Durham Ox (now the Maypole) with some friends where she danced and talked of the day's events, not returning until quite late. Mrs. Royle was not pleased and gave the girl her notice. To which, Emma saucily replied, "It's for the best. I better leave before my character is gone.”

Emma's eventual story varied in each re-telling. A few weeks before the fete - Mrs. Royle took her three daughters to London for a short visit. Emma remained at the vicarage with Rev. Royle and his young son. According to Emma, Mrs. Royle's carriage wasn't even out of sight before the vicar suggested he'd come into her bed that night for a roll-about. Thinking it was just a ribald jest, Emma did her chores, locked up the house and brought the keys to the vicar's study and went up to her room. The door could only be loosely fastened. That night, she awoke to find the 47-year old vicar in her bed. 

The vicar - of course - denied it all. But the story got round and church attendance in Wellow began to decline. The churchwardens did some digging, visiting the vicarage to inspect the bedroom layout. The Bishop of Lincoln was informed of the "disgusting" claims against their vicar. The bishop demanded that Royle, if he was innocent as he claimed, must prosecute his young accuser for slander.

For two days at the Notts Assizes in March 1862, it was "he said, she said." As for the vicar, he insisted that he remained in his study until he went to bed that night at 11:30, keeping to his bedroom - alone - until morning. Under cross examination, he denied a servant at one of his previous churches left his employ "in the family way." The presiding judge also declined to allow into evidence a letter from another servant. Still, it was published in one of the local papers. The woman asserted she had been subjected to similar molestation and Mr. Royle deserved to be exposed. [Lastly, while researching this case, I learned that Mr. Royle, as a young student at Cambridge, was "rusticated for being in the habit of continually visiting the house of a prostitute." (Linehan, St. John's College Cambridge, A History)]

Emma Ward spent several hours in the witness box. She was sharply questioned. She admitted staying in the vicarage for several days after the alleged incident, telling no one, and only made her charges after she was let go by Mrs. Royle. Emma's testimony was frequently interrupted by laughter. When the vicar slipped into her bed, she recalled him saying, "It's only me, Emma. I won't hurt you." As noted, her story varied: to some, she said she struggled free from the vicar but, to others, she said "he had connexion with me."

Rev Royle's counsel tore apart the inconsistencies in Emma's stories. Her charges were completely uncorroborated. Emma's lawyer, meantime, insisted she was a "good" girl whose basic account of what happened in the vicarage bedroom remained unshaken. Connexion wasn't required. The shocking liberties taken with a young girl under the vicarage roof were proof enough. The jury of twelve men spent less than an hour to find Emma Ward had slandered Mr. Royle but they expressed their opinion of the reputation of the vicar of Wellow by awarding him damages in the insulting amount of one shilling! 

Police had to protect the Royles who were "jostled rather roughly" as they left the courthouse. The Rev. Mr. Royle returned to his vicarage; in fact, he remained many more years at St Swithin's until his death in 1885. The parish history records that, during Royle's time in Wellow, the church fell into considerable disrepair. At his death, however, he was remembered as an excellent preacher, "even the children could follow his beautiful discourses."

How the Vicar Came and Went, a collection of Victorian clerical scandals is available at Amazon.

A Jubilee Scandal

Canon Fleming
(Vanity Fair)

The anticipation for Queen Victoria's 50th Jubilee, being celebrated in June of 1887, would have seemed familiar to us. The stores were filled with Jubilee flags, brooches, soaps, plates, and framed photographs of Her Majesty for the mantel. For the more devout subjects, one of her favorite chaplains, the Rev. Canon James Fleming, published a small reprint of two recent sermons at St. Michael's, Chester Square, the posh London church where he had been vicar for many years. 

There was a belief in the book world that no one ever reads published sermons. Not in this case as Canon Fleming was soon publicly accused of gross plagiarism. An embarrassing pamphlet made the rounds: "The Stolen Sermon, or Canon Fleming's Theft." Side by side comparisons made it plain that Fleming had copied directly from a sermon given by the American evangelist T Dewitt Talmage of the Brooklyn Tabernacle. Talmage was a Presbyterian, and. a religious celebrity in America known for his "dramatic physical theatrics." During a London visit in 1877, huge crowds came to hear (and see) him preach in Hyde Park and elsewhere. Talmage even met Rev Fleming at that time and found him to be a "most agreeable" gentleman. 

Rev T Dewitt Talmage
(1832-1902)

Ten years later, in Brooklyn, when informed that the gentleman Canon had almost certainly stolen his sermons, Talmadge was quite gracious. Such a "friendly, genial, glorious man" wouldn't be capable of the charge made against him. In London, Fleming confessed that he had read Talmage's sermon in a published collection, Fifty Sermons (now to be found on line at forgottenbooks.com). It obviously made a great impact on him and he copied it out. When referring back to those notes, the canon believed he unconsciously presumed it to be his own work. Critics called the explanation of "unconscious cerebration" worse than the crime. The Pall Mall Gazette asserted that "no apology" could explain the "word for word, sentence for sentence, striking thought for striking thought" theft of another man's sermon. A New York paper said the matter raises "an uncomfortable doubt as to the English canon's moral condition." 

Fleming survived the kerfuffle, for he was "altogether a good fellow" and a royal favorite. But, the scandal was recalled at his death in 1908. "He will not be comfortable when he sees Talmage coming his way across the Elysian fields."