Rampton, who died in 1585 and was
yeoman of the chamber to Edward VI., and the Queens Mary and Elizabeth.
It stands in the south aisle, with an inscription on a brass plate
against the wall, underneath which is an altar tomb covered with a slab
of black marble, on which are the effigies, in brass, of Robert Rampton,
and his wife Margaret, who died in 1590.

Altogether, Chingford is one of the prettiest villages near London, and
its church is a picturesque attraction for pedestrian tourists, and such
as love to steal away from the maelstroom of an overgrown metropolis, to
glide into scenes of "calm contemplation and poetic ease;" although much
of the journey lies through avenues of bricks and mortar, and trim roads
that swarm with busy toil.

In the parish of Chingford is an estate called Scots Mayhew, or
Brindwoods, which is held of the rector by the following singular
tenure:--"Upon every alienation, the owner of the estate, with his wife,
and a man and maid servant, (each upon a horse) come to the parsonage,
where the owner does his homage, and pays his relief in manner
following:--He blows three blasts with his horn, carries a hawk on his
fist, and his servant has a greyhound in a slip--both for the use of the
rector that day. He receives a chicken for his hawk, a peck of oats for
his horse, and a loaf of bread for his greyhound. They all dine, after
which the master blows three blasts on his horn, and they all
depart."[5]

[5] Morant's Essex, vol. i. p. 57.

For the original of the engraving, and the substance of this
description, our thanks are due to S.I.B.

* * * * *

OLD SONG.

The old minstrels saw far and deep, and clear into all
heart-mysteries--and, low-born, humble men as they were, their tragic or
comic strains strike like electricity.--_Blackwood._

* * * * *

SPIRIT OF THE
Public Journals.

* * * * *

THE SHAVING SHOP

'Tis not an half hour's work--
A Cupid and a fiddle, and the thing's done.

FLETCHER.

"Hold back your head, if you please, sir, that I may get this napkin
properly fastened--there now," said Toby Tims, as, securing the pin, he
dipped his razor into hot water, and began working up with restless
brush the lather of his soapbox.

"I dare say you have got a newspaper there," said I; "are you a
politician, Mr. Tims?"

"Oh, just a little bit of one. I get