of
the vicar present him with red-and-white-spotted handkerchiefs, which
were used as comforters. The church was lighted with tallow
candles--"dips" they were called--and at intervals during the service
Joshua would go round and snuff them. The snuffers soon became full, and
it was a matter of deep interest to the congregation to see on whose
head the snuff would fall, and to dodge it if it came their way.

The Psalms of Tate and Brady's version were sung and were given out with
the usual preface, "Let us sing to the praise and glory of God the 1st,
2nd, 5th, 8th, and 20th verses of the ---- Psalm with the Doxology."
How that Doxology bothered the congregation! The Doxologies were all at
the end of the Prayer Book, and it was not always easy to hit the right
metre; but that was of little consequence. A word added if the line was
too short, or omitted if too long, required skill, and made all feel
that they had done their best when it was successfully over. After the
old clerk's death, he was succeeded by his son Joshua, or Jos-a-way, as
the name was pronounced, whose son, also named Joshua the third, became
clerk, and still holds the office.

The predecessor of the vicar was a pluralist, who held Caistor with its
two chapelries of Holton and Clixby and the living of Rothwell. He was
non-resident, and the numerous churches were served by a curate. This
man was a great smoker, and used to retire to the vestry to don the
black gown and smoke a pipe before the sermon, the congregation singing
a Psalm meanwhile. One Sunday he had an extra pipe, and Joshua told him
that the people were getting impatient.

"Let them sing another Psalm," said the curate.

"They have, sir," replied the clerk.

"Then let them sing the 119th," replied the curate.

At last he finished his pipe, and began to put on the black gown, but
its folds were troublesome, and he could not get it on.

"I think the devil's in the gown," muttered the curate.

"I think he be," dryly replied old Joshua.

That the clerk was often a person of dignity and importance is shown by
the recollections of an old parishioner of the rector of Fornham All
Saints, near Bury St. Edmunds. "Mr. Baker, the clerk," of Westley, who
flourished seventy years ago, used to hear the children their catechism
in church on Sunday afternoons. "Ah, sir, I often think of what he told
us, that the world would not come to an end till people were killed
_wholesale_, and now think how of