"1662, Nov. 12th.-A saints' bell ordered to be hanged in the steeple over the other bells, and a Prayer Book bought at the parish charge."

These entries coming so close upon each other are almost ludicrous.

The Great Fire laid St. Peter's, with many other churches, in ruins; and the following entries are irregular, and chiefly relate to the rebuilding :

"1672, December 31st.-Five guineas to be paid to Dr. Wren (Sir Christopher) for his pains in furthering a tabernacle for this parish (a temporary building).”

"1680, Tuesday, September 7th.-A contract entered into for a new church."

"1682.-Church completed."

"1719, May 22nd.-6d. offered to each of the 12 parishioners who come first to vestry."

Think of bribing twelve inhabitants of Cornhill at 6d. per head!

We are tempted to give the subjoined quaint epitaph, taken from a tomb in the old church:

"Here under lieth William Messe, of this Citie;
Whilst he lived, free of the Grocers' Company;

And Julian, his wife, to whom 24 years married was he,
By whom God sent him five sonnes, and daughters three;

And to God's will his heart was always bent,

So did his death show a life well spent.

Here is this written, that other may remember

His godly departure from this world the 26th of September!"

Take as a companion piece an exquisitely beautiful inscription on the tomb of Richard, his two wives, and children, in St. Saviour's Church, Southwark :

"Like to the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on the tree,
Or like the dainty flower of May,
Or like the morning of the day;

Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonah had;
Even so is many whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth;
The flower fades, the morning hasteth;
The sun sets, the shadow flies;

The gourd consumes, and man, he dies."

In the modern church of St. Peter there is a beautiful mural monument to the memory of the seven children of Mr. James Woodmason, who were all burnt to death on the night of January 18, 1782. The accident was occasioned by a spark igniting the white drapery of their mother's looking-glass and toilet. The seven infant sufferers (for the eldest was but six years old-the youngest were twins) are sculptured as cherubs encircling the tablet; and the artist has endowed the marble with such lines of celestial loveliness, that they can scarcely be looked upon without admiration. There is an engraving of this monument.

The ancient records thus dealt with have a peculiar charm for the writer. While he turns over the neglected leaves, he is fain to imagine that a voice from the past is in his ears; he can even fancy the mild, contemplative features of the studious clerk of St. Peter's photographed upon the parchment, and silently admonishing him of the noiseless lapse of time.

151

LONDON AT CHRISTMAS.

THERE was something kindly and genial in the Saturnalian feasts of the ancients, when bond and free, the helot and his master, enjoyed themselves together, and, for a few hours of the year, man's common brotherhood was acknowledged by all. Christmas, during the long course of ages which have rolled by since our Lord's advent, has been a still more blessed time of immunity from the pains and penalties of poverty. Wretched indeed was he for whom no friend or relative kept a chair at some hospitable table-for whom there was no hand-shaking, no smile of welcome, no hearty words of salutation. Christmas offered a sort of inning, after the toilsome monthly heats of the year, for the wayfarers and pilgrims of all the families of the land. Many who could meet but once during 365 days, met then. There was a national réunion of young and old-parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins; not a link in the chain of love was wanting; or, if sea or continent kept some dear ones away, their names were "household words, freshly remembered," as the wine-cup circled around the hospitable board. In absence, Christmas was anticipated as the season of meeting. Sorrow of heart and toil of arm were sustained with greater patience, as fancy pleased the youthful and consoled the aged with visions of the grand

December jubilee. Has any of this warmth and kindliness of feeling departed from among us? Do we recollect poor friends and relations as well as formerly, at Christmas? Is the goose, the turkey, and the chine brought to as many doors? Are as many chimneys warmed by the hospitable fires that roast the sirloin, or keep the plumpudding a-boil? Are mince-pies as much in request, and snap-dragon as popular as ever? Let us take courage,

and hope so.

Yet there is a change abroad. Many old customs and observances are fading out. Will our children listen to the waits as an edifying institution? Will the mince-pies and plum-puddings of 1900 be as rich and tasty as those we shall enjoy so much on Christmas Day next? We must not be too critical, for certainly benevolence is not out of fashion. There will be plum-pudding, and substantial beef, and frothing porter in every London workhouse. Kindly masters and mistresses of the parish unions will not be wanting, to deck the hall or chapel with holly; and the gentle-hearted priest, as he blesses the liberal meal, will breathe words of peace and comfort for the poor pensioners. Nor will the infirmary patients be forgotten; each will have a share of the delicacies, and, in addition, the welcome dole of tea or snuff; while the younger inmates will rejoice over the boon of cakes and oranges. I know a medical man who visits the sick in one of the civic unions, whose good wife annually invests several pounds in toys for the poor children; and I saw, not long since, Dr. Tait, the Bishop of London, stand by an infant's crib, in one of the wards of a paupers' school, and inquire of the nurse how she amused the little sufferer. Unselfish sympathy and genuine pity are not extinct. I do not measure them by the length of subscription lists, or the splendour of charitable asylums; no, but rather gauge the kindliness of our fellow-citizens by

the generous though silent streams of bounty and tenderness which continually, and especially at this genial season, visit and cheer so many humble dwellings. Every City ward, where there are any poor, has its almoners. Bread, coals, materials for winter clothing, are liberally dispensed to all that need them. The rich merchant, in his suburban villa, takes care that the sons and daughters of want shall taste of his abundance. There is a holy magic in the power of wealth to make the hearts of widows and orphans sing for joy; and well do our prosperous traders exercise it. Even the prisons are cheered; bondage is made less oppressive; the fetters get a velvet lining. The City Companies send Christmas gifts to the magistrates of the adjacent districts; and private benefactors, symbolised as A., B., or C., drop their alms into the court box, to afford help in cases of severe destitution. Poor needlewomen, employed by slop clothiers, tempted to pawn materials for food or fire, meet with merciful judges, and are restored to their homes, with aids to fresh exertions, and the Scriptural counsel, "Go, and sin no more.

Christmas has various harbingers, all accompanied with pleasurable excitement. In the palmy days of Smithfield there was the great annual market, painfully crowded with oxen, sheep, and pigs-all fed to repletion; and the public ways adjoining were scarcely safe for pedestrians. Now, the cattle-show gives audible note of ten thousand coming banquets; and myriads of be-crinolined fashionables, with their beauish satellites, have taken Baker-street Bazaar by storm-as, in future years, they will the Agricultural Hall at Islington. Then, the week previous to the most convivial of convivial days, just make a pilgrimage from Camberwell to Leadenhall, or from Hampstead to Newgate Market. Observe in every genteel street the polishing of the window-panes-the glossy leaves with the