The Rector of "Stewkey"

EDMUND PEARSON

Concerning an English divine whose activities in by-lane and side-street expressed his zeal for the holy life

■ American sojourners in London a year

or so ago found thorns in their paths. The horror of the Lindbergh kidnapping was at its height, and the best-intentioned Englishmen could not refrain from asking their Yankee friends questions which raised the hitter subject of our standards of behaviour. Then—although it was wholly irrelevant—the scandal of the Rector of StifTkey (pronounced Stewkey) rose above the English horizon, and the badgered American took shameless refuge in a tu quoque. Henceforth, all for which he had to apologize was the career of A1 Capone, the Prohibition mess, and our disgraceful blunders in eating our breakfast marmalade out of its proper time.

■ To the horrified ears of the Chancellor

of the Diocese of Norwich, the history

of the Rev. Harold Davidson, Rector of StifTkey, was laid bare. For weeks and weeks, during a good part of the summer— almost to the grouse and salmon season— the Chancellor sat at Church House, Westminster, to judge the case of the Bishop of Norwich versus Mr. Davidson. For even a Bishop cannot remove a properly ordained clergyman—strip him of his benefices— without long and painful process—if the clergyman chooses to resist. And Mr. Davidson was a prince of resisters.

A King's Counsel, Mr. Roland Oliver, unfolded to the Chancellor the complaints of the saddened Bishop. Mr. Oliver fumbled his papers, adjusted his wif, blushed once or twice—preliminary, trial blushes, to see that all was in order—coughed, and began.

Stiffkey (still pronounced Stewkey) is near the North Sea. The parish has 500 people—not enough to occupy the time of an active-minded man, like Mr. Davidson. And Mr. Davidson troubled bis parish little. He had been there for more than twenty years. Except on Sunday, when he conducted the services, he was not seen in StifTkey. Year in and year out, he took the London train on Sunday evening, arriving in the city in the small hours. He returned to his cure of souls on the following Saturday night. Who performed the marriages and buried the dead, does not appear. But the usual week-day activities of a rural rector occupied him not at all: Lady Bracknell's tennis-tea for the benefit of the blanket fund was not graced by bis presence; the Mothers' Meeting had to content themselves with a wandering curate, if one was at hand; and the Boy Scouts lacked his ghostly counsel, as well as his help at cricket and rugger.

Why was he in London six days every week? Well, he was supposed to be looking for a "Mr. G." from whom he had expectations. The whole alphabet was represented in this case, with Miss X., Mrs. Y., Mr. A., and others. Some of them appeared in person, but Mr. G. forever remained off-stage. His only real function was revealed, late in the hearing, as the lender of a suit of pyjamas. The Rector, in what seems to be the canonical custom of priests of the Church of England, had indignantly denied owning or wearing pyjamas. At last, in the face of overwhelming evidence that be had been seen in such a costume—silk ones, too—he remembered that Mr. G. had lent them.

The Rector's other purpose in London, said Mr. Oliver, with properly downcast eyes, was rescue work among young women. Very pretty young women. Chiefly from the age of sixteen to twenty. He took them to theatres, cinemas, luncheons, teas, on taxi-rides, and he paid for their lodgings. He called on them at all kinds of unearthly hours, and these calls took place, usually, in "bed-sitting rooms."

"A curious place," observed the K.C., in an acid tone, "a curious place to proselytize young women."

• The Chancellor of the Diocese maintained the best traditions of the English bench. He was more innocent than a dove. Everything had to be explained to him.

Somebody was testifying about Nellie Churchill. (She was the model, whom the Rector, two or three times, had taken to Paris—with the laudable purpose of finding work for her.) The witness sarcastically remarked that Nellie "tried to speak with an Oxford accent," and the Chancellor blandly inquired:

"What is an Oxford accent?"

Mr. Davidson's sacerdotal labours carried him often into taverns and tea-shops, into A.B.C. and Lyons' Restaurants, so that one had to be conversant with this side of London life. Someone spoke of his custom of annoying the employees. Mr. Oliver's exact, though regrettable, phrase was that there was "soft handling and pawing.

And this occurred among the "trippies."

The Chancellor doubtless knew his Barrie, and had heard of "Tweenies," but he had never taken judicial notice of "trippies."

"What," he asked, "what on earth are

He was enlightened by courteous counsel. They were "girls between 16 and 18, before they become waitresses."

It also appeared that the Rector, sitting on a park bench one day with Miss Barbara Harris, related the story of the Scot and bis appendicitis. The Scot had asked a girl of his acquaintance if she would like to see the place where he had his appendix removed, and while the girl was hastily disavowing curiosity, lie pointed to the Charing Cross Hospital, remarking: "Yon's the

The Chancellor rather severely, albeit justly, remarked:

"I never heard a joke with less joke in it."

Most of the time, however, the Chancellor treated the Rector with consideration, lie listened to the long tale of his curious exploits, and gave the same attention to the Rector's defence. He heard, for instance, of the beginning of the years of acquaintance with Barbara (Continued on page 60) Harris—the chief witness for the prosecution.

(CorrHnued from page 31)

Miss Harris was standing, one day, near the Marble Arch, when the Rector, his collar reversed (he did not wear clerical dress in London) walked past her, two or three times, and finally approached with the polite in-

"Excuse me, hut are you Miss X., the film actress?"

It was Barbara's good fortune to resemble sometimes Miss Greta Garbo, and at other times Miss Lilian Harvey. Which incarnation was uppermost that day is not in the record, but, without directly answering the gentleman's question, she smiled at him, brightly, and accepted his invitation to tea. Thus began a long friendship which was at least indiscreet; and was bitterly regretted by both.

Toward the end of the trial, Miss Harris referred to the Rector's everlasting attempts to get her to write to the Bishop of Norwich in his behalf.

"He has almost driven me potty!"

In this testimony, Barbara was fully sustained by no less a person than the Lord Bishop of London. Appearing as a witness for the Rector, the Bishop testified that he had never heard anything against Mr. Davidson's moral character—ahem—at least, not before the present case. But His Lordship agreed with Miss Harris, as to being driven potty—be admitted that the Rector was "a nuisance, a very great nuisance, and a busybody."

If the Rector had not been so eccentric he might today have been undisturbed in his living; might still be preaching in Stiflkey on Sundays, and proselytizing the trippies in London, the rest of the week. But he had many peculiarities besides those enumerated in the formal charges. For one thing, he practically never slept. Whether in the country or in the city, he was rushing about all day and all night, and often whooping under his friends' windows at three o'clock in the morning. 1 fear this will alienate from him the sympathy of many devout sleepers, whose Christian tolerance would have forgiven his more scarlet sins!

For my own part, I count it against him that he boasted of being a lifelong teetotaller, and that he warned Barbara Harris against detective stories "as likely to give a suspicious and unbalanced view of life."

He testified in his own behalf. He described bis early career on the stage, and his struggle to enter the Church. He bad always been known, be told his Bishop, as the Prostitutes' Padre, and it was his best title. Even in his Oxford days, one of his jesting friends used to speak of "Mr. Davidson and his harmless harem." He had tried to found a club for dancing girls in Paris, and it would be well "if the icebergs of the Church would not draw their skirts away from these girls." It was folk of evil mind who thought evil of his trips to Paris with Nellie Churchill, and of his acquaintance with Barbara Harris and Miss Holt and Mrs. B. and Mrs. Y., to say nothing of a group of

ladies who filled the alphabet from A to Izzard.

Going into particulars, he denied that someone, behind the bar in a London pub, had greeted him with the remark:

"Hullo, you old thief! How are all the girls?"

That he was known, in one shop in St. James', as "The Mormon" was possible. It was a joke. Found in a room—not alone—at 11 P.M. on one occasion, with the lights out, was easily explained. The lighting system had failed. As for Sylvia Harris's testimony that he called Barbara the "Queen of my Heart," it was true. He often called people that. He called his landlady, Mrs. Walton, "Queen of my Heart." It came from a song "You are Queen of my Heart Tonight." He could sing a stave or two, if the Chancellor wished it.

The Chancellor quickly disclaimed any such wish.

As for Mr. Oliver's statement that, one day when Barbara and the Rector called on Mrs. B., that lady—a musichall artist—received them in a robe de nuit, and performed what Mr. Oliver sourly called some "gymnastics or acrobatics," that was not true. Mrs. B. merely did some "tapping," and the Rector "illustrated with his toes."

As to a rather unusual amount of kissing, the Rector's counsel explained this by alluding to the practices of the early Christians. His landlady, Mrs. Walton, testified that he often kissed her, but that in no wise disconcerted the family—he often kissed Mr. Walton, as well. Later—and for good measure—Mrs. Walton added:

"And the milkman, too."

The photograph, in which he appeared, adjusting a shawl about a lady (who might easily be chilly without it), was easily explained. Taking this picture was a trap into which he had been lured. Moreover, the sudden explosion of the flash-light caused him nearly to drop the shawl. The Chancellor gave this rather compromising picture his most scrupulous attention and called for a magnifying glass, to examine the picture and test the truth of the Rector's statements.

In the end, however, the Chancellor found all the charges sustained. All of them; including the conduct with "a woman named"; and the incident in the Chinese restaurant in Blooms-

The Rector knew not the meaning of defeat. When the verdict was pronounced against him, he picked up his silk hat and raced out of Court, where he was instantly surrounded by his sympathizers, men and women, including clergymen. And at last reports, he had not given up the fight. In order to raise money for another appeal, he was exhibiting himself in the pleasure grounds at Blackpool, sitting in a barrel all day long. In the next barrel was a girl who was engaged in fasting. The Rector left his barrel for luncheon and tea, and occupied the rest of his time by writing his memoirs.