Some parish registers give you the bare minimum: a name, a date, and very little else. Others, very occasionally, open a window straight into the lives — and deaths — of the people they record.
The burial register for Prees, Shropshire, covering the years 1782 to 1799, firmly belongs in the second category.
Alongside the expected names, ages, and burial dates, this book records two details that are rarely preserved so consistently for this period: the supposed cause of death and where in the churchyard the deceased was buried. North side. East end. Close to the church. Details that instantly turn a list of burials into a map of a lost community.
While looking through the register for my Dickin family, I came across the burial of a sixth great-grand uncle:
Joseph Dickin, buried 8 November 1792,
Cause of death: “fall from horse when drunk”
Buried: north side of the churchyard
No age is given in the register, but from other records I estimate Joseph to have been around 63 years old.
It is, I admit, one of those entries that makes you pause — darkly amusing in its blunt honesty, yet undeniably tragic. Parish clerks were not in the habit of softening the truth, and here the cause of death is recorded with a matter-of-fact clarity that feels startlingly modern.
Not all entries are so specific. A recurring cause of death in this register is simply “waste”, applied not only to older people but to teenagers and young adults, including children as young as fifteen.
“Waste” was not a disease in itself, but a description — a slow decline, the body wasting away. In the late 18th century this term was often used for conditions we would now recognise as tuberculosis (consumption), chronic infections, malnutrition, or prolonged febrile illnesses. It speaks to long suffering rather than sudden death, and its appearance again and again hints at the quiet, persistent illnesses that moved through communities without ever being named.
Another striking feature of the Prees register is the frequent inclusion of parents’ names, something genealogists usually hope for only in the burials of young children.
Here, however, parents are often recorded even when the deceased is an adult.
One such entry reads:
26 April 1795 — Sarah Moor, aged 25,
daughter of Joseph and Hannah Dickin
This single line does several things at once. It confirms Sarah’s parentage, links her directly to Joseph Dickin (of unfortunate horse-related fame), and supports evidence that she was the Sarah Dickin who married John Moore.
Unfortunately, it also illustrates how easily records can be misread. On Ancestry, this burial has been transcribed as “Sarah Moor Dickin”, with her parents’ surname incorrectly assumed to be her own at death — a reminder that even the best records can be undermined by careless transcription.
In some cases, the clerk went even further. Not only were both parents named for adult burials, but the mother’s maiden surname was occasionally recorded as well — a detail far more commonly associated with baptisms than burials. Whether this reflects the habits of a particular clerk or a brief enthusiasm for thoroughness, it adds yet another layer of value to an already remarkable register.
Perhaps one of the most poignant entries is that of:
William Watford, buried 1795, aged 78,
Cause of death: “deprived of eyesight 11 years”
Blindness itself does not kill, of course, but this entry tells us volumes. Loss of sight often meant loss of independence, livelihood, and mobility. In an era without social support systems, long-term disability could easily lead to neglect, poverty, and declining health. The clerk recorded what the community understood to be the root of William’s decline.
The Prees burial register is unusual not because death was unusual — it never is — but because it was described.
These entries restore individuality to people who are otherwise just names in a tree. They remind us that our ancestors lived in fragile bodies, in a world without antibiotics or accurate diagnoses, and that parish clerks sometimes captured truths that modern databases struggle to handle.
They also remind us, gently but firmly, to check the originals.
Because sometimes the difference between “Sarah Moor” and “Sarah Moor Dickin” is the difference between a solid family link and a genealogical dead end — and sometimes, a man really did just fall off his horse when drunk.
Linda
Image disclaimer
Images reproduced here are used for research and illustrative purposes only. Original records are held by the relevant archive and accessed via Findmypast. All rights remain with the original record holders and Findmypast.
