"Well, my master, and whither are you going?" "I am going to S. Mary's," replied the young gownsman. "And who is the preacher to-day?" "I don't know." "Not know who is the preacher? Then, upon my word, you have no small merit in taking pot-luck at S. Mary's." During a long illness the good old doctor attended a poor man, of whose family party a pert, talkative magpie made one; and as the patient observed that Dr. Glynn always, when paying a visit, had some joke with the bird, he thought that perhaps the doctor might like to possess it. Accordingly, when the poor man was well again, with overflowing gratitude, but with no money to pay a bill, he thought he could do no better than make his kind friend a present of the magpie; and sure enough the prisoner in its cage was conveyed to his rooms in King's College. There the bearer met with a very kind reception, but was desired to carry back the bird with him. "I cannot," said the doctor, "take so good care of it as can you; but I shall consider it mine, and I entrust it to you to keep for me; and, as long as it lives, I will pay you half-a-crown weekly for its maintenance." The anecdote was turned into verse by Mr. Plumtre, and is given in Gunning's _Reminiscences of Cambridge_. When Dr. Glynn assumed the name of Clobery he assumed also the Clobery arms--three bats; and no animal could better symbolize the man, with his curious blindness to what was obvious to most--that the Chatterton papers were forgeries. He went down to Bristol on purpose to examine the chest with its MS. contents. The fact that in one of them the invention of heraldry was ascribed to Hengest, and that of painted glass to an unknown monk in the reign of King Edmund, did not disturb his faith. He entered into vehement controversy with George Steevens, in his endeavour to establish their genuineness. He waxed hot over it, and it took a good deal to put Glynn-Clobery out of his usual placidity and coolness. He set up to be a poet. His Seatonian prize poem on the "Day of Judgment" was thought much of at the time. Previously Christopher Smart had won the prize over and over again. Glynn wrested the laurels from him. This is not saying much; his poem was not much better, and not at all worse, than the general run of these prize poems. But it had the advantage of pleasing, and has been repeatedly republished, and has even obtained for the old doctor a niche in the temple of Poesy--a notice in a _Biographical Dictionary of Poets_. He died at Cambridge on February 8th, 1800, and at his own desire was buried at midnight in King's College Chapel. THREE MEN OF MOUSEHOLE