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spot. As the acceptance of monetary compound was entirely at the discretion of the tithe owner, tithing in kind remained a fall-back for clergymen willing to undergo the inconvenience of collecting individual yields themselves. The practice, however, was rare and only remained in the north-western counties, where Parker would most probably have seen it as a boy, and in Kent. In Worcestershire tithing in kind had dwindled then disappeared over the centuries, and Parker’s decision to reintroduce it was like dragging the village back into the feudal age.
    It was a decision mired in difficulties. Parker was forced to hire men to visit farms and collect produce on his behalf. He was compelled to buy barrows and handcarts, and to build a barn to store all the collected items. As Oddingley was such a large and sprawling parish, it became a lengthy and troublesome task with Parker or one of his employees forced to haul carts and drive animals along the twisting lanes. Worst of all he was cast into the demeaning role of taxman and market trader, his decision thrusting him into the very day-to-day situations that the tax was designed to protect him from. A humorous ballad penned in the eighteenth century underlined colourfully the problems associated with tithing in kind. It recounts the story of a parson’s attempt to claim his tithe pig – a plan foiled by a characteristically uncooperative farmer.
    Good morning says the parson,
    Oh, good morning sir, to you
    I’m come to claim a sucking pig 21
    You know it is my due
    Therefore, I pray, go fetch me one
    That is both plump and fine
    Since I have asked a friend or two
    Along with me to dine
    Then in the stye the farmer goes,
    Amongst the pigs so small
    And chooses for the parson,
    The least amongst them all;
    But when the parson saw the same
    How he did stamp and roar
    He stampt his foot and shook his wig
    And almost curst and swore
    The ballad foreshadowed events at Oddingley, where clashes between Parker and his ratepayers commenced shortly afterwards. The first had occurred four or five years before the vestry meeting, when Parker and Thomas Lloyd, his first tithe man, called at Pound Farm and met John Barnett, who quickly ordered them to leave. Parker refused, declaring that he was there by right. At this, Barnett’s temper cracked and he squared up to the clergyman. ‘Damn your blood!’ 22 he shouted. ‘Take that!’ And he kicked him sharply on the thigh.
    Parker reported the incident and had Barnett successfully prosecuted for assault. It was a warning to the farmers, who knew that if they refused him the tithes he was within his rights to have them hauled before the common law courts. If they were found guilty of failing to pay church rates they could be punished by a fine or, in extreme instances, prison. Parker had a second weapon too. He could report them to the ecclesiastical courts, where wayward parishioners could be admonished openly, suspended from church altogether or forced to do penance. A typical punishment ordered delinquents to stand outside the church porch on a Sunday morning before divine service, dressed in a long frock with bare legs and feet.
    Fear of such punishments – financial, spiritual or social – was enough to force most of the farmers to pay without complaint. But the spark of violence at Pound Farm in 1801 was a harbinger of what was to come as litigation between the clergyman and Evans, Barnett and Clewes became, for a time, a feature of village life. Records from Parker’s solicitor in Worcester show that the ensuing legal costs alone, which had to be met by the farmers, reached around £100.
    In 1803 there was another incident. William Colley, a local farmhand, was working at Pound Farm, just 20 yards from Parker’s rectory. Barnett had told him to crop the tops of his apple trees, and shortly after he had finished, Parker appeared to claim his tenth of the clippings. In the farmhouse Colley found John Barnett peering through a