ack gown in the pulpit, the clerk was
indignant, and went up to remonstrate. Knocking at the pulpit door and
no notice being taken of him, he proceeded to pull the black gown, and
made the curate come down, change his robes, and complete the service in
the orthodox fashion.

In another Notts church, during service, there was an encounter between
two clerks. The regular clerk having been taken ill was unequal to his
duties for some weeks, and appointed a man to carry them out for him. On
the restoration to health of the real clerk he came into church to
resume his duties, but found the man he had appointed occupying the
box--the so-called desk. Whereupon they had a scuffle in the aisle.

* * * * *

The Rev. William Selwyn recollects the following incidents in the parish
of F-----, near Cambridge:

Here up to the end of the sixties and well into the seventies a most
quaint service was in fashion. The morning service began with a metrical
Psalm--Tate and Brady--led by the clerk (of these more hereafter). This
being ended, the vicar commenced the service always with the sentence "O
Lord, correct me"--never any other. Then all things went on in the
regular course till the end of the Litany, when the clerk would be heard
stamping down the church and ascending the gallery in order to be ready
for the second metrical Psalm. That ended, the vicar would commence with
the ante-Communion service from the _reading-desk_. This went on in due
course till the end of the Nicene Creed, when without sermon, prayers,
or blessing, the morning service came to an abrupt termination. The
afternoon service was identical, save that it ended with a sermon and
the blessing.

But the chief peculiarity was the clerk and the singing. The metrical
Psalm chosen was invariably one for the day of the month whatever it
might be. The clerk would give it out, "Let's sing to the praise and
glory of God," and then would read the first two lines. The usual
village band--fiddle, trombone, etc. etc.--would accompany him, which
thing done, the next two lines would follow, and so on. Usually the
number of verses was four, but sometimes the clerk would go on to six,
or even seven. Once, I remember, this led to a somewhat ludicrous
result. It was the seventh day of the month, consequently the
thirty-fifth was the metrical Psalm to be sung. I think my late revered
relative, Canon Selwyn, learnt then with astonishment, as I did myse