Jan. 21. 1854.] 



NOTES AND QUERIES. 



51 



LONDON, SATURDAY, JANUARY 21, 1854. 



$0tCtf. 

 A PLEA FOR THE CITT CHURCHES. 



When a bachelor is found wandering about, he 

 cares not whither, your fair readers (for doubtless 

 such a " dealer in curiosities " as you are has 

 many of that sex who, however unjustly, have the 

 credit of the " curious " bump) will naturally ex- 

 claim " he must be in love," or " something hor- 

 rible has happened to him." Let us, however, 

 disappoint them by assuring them we shall keep 

 our own counsel. If the former be the cause, 

 green lanes and meandering streams would suit 

 his case better than Gracechurch Street, London, 

 with the thermometer five or six degrees below 

 freezing point, and the snow (!) the colour and 

 consistency of chocolate. Such a situation, how- 

 ever, was ours, when our friend the Incumbent of 

 Holy Trinity, Minories, accosted us. He was 

 going to his church ; would we accompany him ? 

 "We would have gone to New Zealand with him, if 

 he had asked us, at that moment. The locale of 

 the Minories was nearly as unknown to us as the 

 aforesaid flourishing colony. On entering the 

 church (which will not repay an architectural 

 zealot), while our friend was extracting a burial 

 register, our eye fell on an old monument or two. 

 There was a goodly Sir John Pelham, who had 

 been cruelly cut down by the hand of death in 

 1580, looking gravely at his sweet spouse, a dame 

 of the noble house of Bletsoe. Behind him is 

 kneeling his little son and heir Oliver, whom, as 

 the inscription informs us, " Death enforced to 

 follow fast " his papa, as he died in 1584. 



And there was a stately monument of the first 

 Lord Dartmouth, a magnanimous hero, and Master 

 of the Ordnance to Charles II. and his renegade 

 brother. We were informed that a gentleman in 

 the vestry had come for the certificate of the 

 burial of Viscount Lewisham, who died some 

 thirty years ago ; that the Legge family were all 

 buried here ; that after having dignified the aris- 

 tocratic parish of St. George, Hanover Square, 

 and the salons of May Fair, during life, they were 

 content to lie quietly in the Minories ! Does not 

 the high blood of the " city merchant " of the 

 present day, of the "gentleman" of the Stock 

 Exchange, curdle at the thought ? Yes, there lie 

 many a noble heart, many a once beautiful face ; 

 but we must now-a-days, forsooth, forget the 

 City as soon as we have made our money in its 

 dirty alleys. To lie there after death ! pooh, the 

 thought is absurd. (Thanks to Lord Palmerston, 

 we have no option now.) 



Well, we were then asked by the worthy In- 

 cumbent, " Would you not like to see my head ? " 

 Did he take us for a Lavater or a Spurzheim ? 

 However, we were not left in suspense long, for 



out of the muniment closet was produced a tin 

 box ; we thought of Beading biscuits, but we were 

 undeceived shortly. Taken out carefully and 

 gently, was produced a human head ! No mere 

 skull, but a perfect human head ! Alas ! its 

 wearer had lost it in an untimely hour. Start 

 not, fair reader! we often lose our heads and 

 hearts too, but not, we hope, in the mode our poor 

 friend did. It was clear a choice had been given 

 to him, but it was a Hobson's choice. He had 

 been axed whether he would or no ! He had been 

 decapitated ! We were told that now ghastly 

 head had once been filled with many an anxious, 

 and perhaps happy, thought. It had had right 

 royal ideas. It was said to be the head of Henry 

 Grey, Duke of Suffolk, the father of the sweet 

 Lady Jane Grey. We could muse and moralise ; 

 but Captain Cuttle cuts us short, " When found, 

 make a Note of it." We found it then there, Sir ; 

 will you make the Note ? The good captain does 

 not like to be prolix. Has his esteemed old re- 

 lative, Sylvanus Urban (many happy new years to 

 him !), made the note before ? 



We came away, shall we say better in mind ? 

 Yes, said we, a walk in the City may be as in- 

 structive, and as good a cure for melancholy, as 

 the charming country. An old city church can 

 tell its tale, and a good one too. We thought of 

 those quaint old monuments, handed down from 

 older churches 'tis true, but still over the slum- 

 bering ashes of our forefathers; and when the 

 thought of the destroying hand that hung over 

 them arose amid many associations, the Bard of 

 Avon's fearful monumental denunciation came to 

 our aid : 



" Blest be the man that spares these stones, 

 And curst be he that moves these bones." 



Richard Hooper. 



St. Stephen's, Westminster. 



ECHO poetry. 



" A Dialogue between a Glutton and Echo. 



Gl. My belly I do deifie. 



Echo. Fie. 



Gl. Who curbs his appetite's a fool. 



Echo. Ah fool ! 



Gl. I do not like this abstinence. 



Echo. Hence. 



Gl. My joy 's a feast, my wish is wine. 



Echo. Swine ! 



Gl. We epicures are happie truly. 



Echo. You lie. 



Gl, Who's that which giveth me the lie? 



Echo. I. 



Gl. What ? Echo, thou that mock'st a voice ? 



Echo. A voice. 



Gl. May I not, Echo, eat my fill ? 



Echo. 111. 



