e singing was no mechanical affair of official routine--it was a
drama. "As the moment of psalmody approached a slate appeared in front
of the gallery, advertising in bold characters the Psalm about to be
sung. The clerk gave out the Psalm, and then migrated to the gallery,
where in company with a bassoon and two key-bugles, a carpenter
understood to have an amazing power of singing 'counter,' and two lesser
musical stars, formed the choir. Hymns were not known. The New Version
was regarded with melancholy tolerance. 'Sternhold and Hopkins' formed
the main source of musical tastes. On great occasions the choir sang an
anthem, in which the key-bugles always ran away at a great pace, while
the bassoon every now and then boomed a flying shot after them." It was
all very curious, very quaint, very primitive. The Church was asleep,
and cared not to disturb the relics of old crumbling inefficiency. The
Church was asleep, the congregation slept, and the clerk often
slept too.

Hogarth's engraving of _The Sleeping Congregation_ is a parable of the
state of the Church of England in his day. It is a striking picture
truly. The parson is delivering a long and drowsy discourse on the text:
"Come unto Me, all ye that labour, and I will give you rest." The
congregation is certainly resting, and the pulpit bears the appropriate
verse: "I am afraid of you, lest I have bestowed upon you labour in
vain." The clerk is attired in his cassock and bands, contrives to keep
one eye awake during the sermon, and this wakeful eye rests upon a
comely fat matron, who is fast asleep, and has evidently been meditating
"on matrimony," as her open book declares. A sleepy church, sleepy
congregation, sleepy times!

Many stories are told of dull and sleepy clerks.

A canon of a northern cathedral tells me of one such clerk, whose duty
it was, when the rector finished his sermon, to say "Amen." On a summer
afternoon, this aged official was overtaken with drowsiness, and as soon
as the clergyman had given out his text, slept the sleep of the just.
Sermons in former years were remarkable for their length and many
divisions.

After the "firstly" was concluded, the preacher paused. The clerk,
suddenly awaking, thought that the discourse was concluded, and
pronounced his usual "Arummen." The congregation rose, and the service
came to a close. As the gathering dispersed, the squire slipped half a
crown into the clerk's hand, and whispered: "Thomas, you mana