The first they were few, if he'd any;
Of the last he had more, than tongue can count o'er,
Who'd have hang'd the old churl for a penny.

In Levi's black train, the clerk did remain
Twenty years, squalling o'er a dull stave;
Yet his mind was so evil, he'd swear like the devil,
Nor repented on this side the grave.

_Fowler, Printer, Salisbury_.

That extraordinary man Mr. William Hutton, who died in 1813, and whose
life has been written and his works edited by Mr. Llewellyn Jewitt,
F.S.A., amongst his other poems wrote a set of verses on _The Way to
Find Sunday without an Almanack_. It tells the story of a Welsh
clergyman who kept poultry, and how he told the days of the week and
marked the Sundays by the regularity with which one of his hens laid her
eggs. The seventh egg always became his Sunday letter, and thus he
always remembered to sally forth "with gown and cassock, book and
band," and perform his accustomed duty. Unfortunately the clerk was
treacherous, and one week stole an egg, with dire consequences to the
congregation, which had to wait until the clergyman, who was engaged in
the unclerical task of "soleing shoes," could be fetched. The poem is a
poor trifle, but it is perhaps worth mentioning on account of the
personality of the writer.

There is a charming sketch of an old clerk in the _Essays and Tales_ of
the late Lady Verney. The story tells of the old clerk's affection for
his great-grandchild, Benny. He is a delightfully drawn specimen of his
race. We see him "creeping slowly about the shadows of the aisle, in his