St. Andrew's under shaft, because that, in old time, in every year, in May-day in the morning, a long shaft, or May-pole, was set up there in the midst of the street, before the south door of the church, which, when fixed in the ground, was higher than the steeple. Hence the name St. Andrew under, below, the shaft. Chaucer* hath assisted to immortalise the said shaft

'As ye would beare

The great SHAFT of Cornchill."

We could tell you the history of its downfal, but our mind is with the monuments, and the church within, rather than the riots of Evil May-day,' and the destruction that followed without. It is truly a beautiful church. There is a curious communion or baptismal table, and railing, as you enter at first, and a noble screen bordered with fine carving; a window of painted glass, very beautiful in colour and execution. Stow speaks of the liberal donations and great charities of the inhabitants of this parish and for the first time for some years, in reply to our question concerning its present state, we were told that it had hardly any poor; of course in comparison with others. We were glad to hear this of the parish in which the remains of this good old pilgrim mouldered. There are a great many curious monuments and tablets in the church; two, particularly, within the communion-table; that on the right must have been richly inlaid with brass, but has been shamefully defaced. The woman, wearied perhaps with our questions, yet pleased a little with the interest we took in what she respected, opened a long chest that contains many old and valuable books, which, standing all the time close by our side, she permitted us to inspect. One we were greatly delighted to see

This passage is not to be found in Chaucer's published works, but was quoted by Stow from a MS. now lost.

The riot of city apprentices on the 1st of May, 1517, which ended in a general onslaught against all foreigners, made stringent rules necessary for their turbulence, and May-Games were for a time forbidden. From that time this famous May-pole was hung upon hooks over the doors of the neighbouring houses, until a fanatical sermon was preached against it in the reign of Edward VI., which so inflamed the citizens, that, after eating a hearty dinner to strengthen themselves, every owner of such house over which the shaft hung, with assistance of each other, sawed off as much of it as hung over his premises; each took his share, and committed to the flames the tremendous idol.'-Pennant.

an old folio edition of the Answer to Harding's Reply to Bishop Jewel's Apology. It is bound and studded with steel entirely deprived of its brightness, and a long and strong chain is attached thereto, which, the woman assured us, was solid gold, used for marking the book!' There are many other volumes of much value in that chest, and we wish they were carefully seen to, and repaired, where age and insects have worn and eaten the leaves. They are without doubt the remains of what Stow makes honourable mention of :- At the lower end of the north aisle,' he says, 'is a wainscoat press, full of good books, the works of many learned and reverend divines, offering at seasonable and convenient times the benefit of reading, to any that shall be as ready to embrace it, as they and their maintainers to impart it.' When we thought of this, we pondered over the precious volumes the more; and would have certainly seen all contained in the chest, had

we

hend our feelings in the least when we told her, that if we had seen it first, we should have seen nothing else. She also informed us how that, some years ago, one of the churchwardens being a house-painter, painted the carved screen, and pulpit, and organ-loft, with oak-paint;' and Master Stow's monument

Stow's Monument.

with white paint,' and that the gentlemen ever since have had much work to get it off. If he had been a tinman, we suppose he would have

coated them all with tin! Oh, the wickedness of the world! We wonder he did not repaint the twelve apostles!

At last we approached the old pilgrim's tomb. We felt as if in the presence of a shrine, and prostrated our hearts before it. There is something inexpressibly holy and happy in the figure of the venerable man unlike all other monuments, not being marble, it has not a cold and chilling aspect. It was a long time reported to be made of terracotta; but, as it was covered with paint, some of the warm tints of the stone beneath where the paint had been destroyed led to the mistake. It has the smooth, stained, and shining (we had almost said warm) look of very old ivory, and no design could better express the character of the historian. He is seated at his table, writing; there is an old swan-quill in his hand. Notwithstanding that the bridge of his nose has been carried away by some rude assault, the full-orbed brow and the concentrated yet benevolent mouth are at once intellectual and amiable. We have seen no engraving that conveys this peculiar expression. There is a clasped book, of the same character as those we had been just inspecting, at either side of the little den in which he sits, and the inscription is simple and beautiful. It is in Latin, but may be translated—

'Sacred to the Memory.

'Here JOHN Sтow, citizen of LONDON, awaits the resurrection in CHRIST, who, having exercised very accurate diligence in investigating ancient records, wrote, in a luminous manner, Annals of England, and a Concise History of the City of London; deserving well of his own, well of every future age. Continuing through life with piety, and gradually and happily retiring from it, he died in the 80th year of his age, on the 6th day of April, 1605. 'Elizabeth, his wife, as a perpetual testimony of her love, grieving.'

This quiet record of his old wife's love is not the less moving because of its simplicity.

And there rests JOHN STOW ;-and there, of all other places, would we have him rest; for though there were thorns in his worldly career, HERE all is as he, if living, would desire-he is in the heart of his beloved city. If anything could be heard in his narrow resting-place, the peals of its thousand bells would wake him before the day of final doom. The parish in which he sleeps is immortalised, by the charities he loved and preserved, from the pangs of starvation which have gnawed the very vitals of our

enduring people.

Strangely enough, beside his tomb are the shelves which, Sunday after Sunday, are piled with bread and money for the widow and the orphan; nay, the very scales are there, to tell the justice of the weights. Right opposite the monument is the pure font he mentions, though its carved cover, one of the most exquisite, both in elegant design and execution, we ever saw, is not noted in his Chronicle;' but there it is blessed to receive, and, in receiving, blessing, the younglings of Christ's flock. Surely he would rejoice to behold the infant citizens received into Holy Church! There he lies among those he loved-the most honoured of those he delighted to honour-THE ONE JOHN STOW !

Let no one sneer at the toils of the antiquary; for his labours are pregnant with instruction, and he has enjoyments peculiarly his own; his enthusiasm may not be at all times intelligible, but out of it proceeds enlightenment to thousands: he may work like the mole-often in darkness and underground—but that which he brings to the surface is fruitful and good. How many pleasures do we owe him for how much of instruction are we his debtors, bringing together the present and the past-illustrating history by proofs surer than hosts of witnesses! Rarely is the antiquary other than the advocate and ally of virtue; it is the gentle and generous only who seek intercourse and intimacy with the dead and the forgotten.

:

THE HEART OF SIR NICHOLAS CRISPE.

F many sad pages in the history of our own age, there is one, at least, that has reference to our own locality-at Old Brompton. We had been reading some matters connected with the modern story of Brandenburgh House, and determined to pay it a visit yet, as will be seen, our pilgrimage was extended to a distance somewhat further off. It was a day in early Spring; it is pleasant to remember it in dull November as a day that must come again to many. The day was sharp, but clear; a day that stimulates to exercise and repays it. Away we went, hardly pausing to think, until we found ourselves where the two roads branch off at Brompton-one leading to Hammersmith, through the Fulham Fields; the other to Fulham; both roads bordering the Market Gardens' of the Metropolis. Of course we preferred the one through a region little known; where we have heard nightingales sing within a mile and a quarter of London, and have rambled for hours amid cherry and apple orchards, while our eyes wearied over acres of lettuce, asparagus, and cauliflowers, and the sunbeams danced above fields of square and bell-glasses which protected the young plants of the pungent cucumber. We passed along the grey and buttressed walls of the Old Brompton Road-on, until we found ourselves between the hedge-rows: the little green buds were already beginning to crack the protecting bark, which, rugged as the friendship of a hearty friend,