We found the tablet without difficulty at the base of the church tower, close to that of William Hazlitt. The epitaph is by Horace Walpole, and runs:-- "The grave, great teacher, to a level brings Heroes and beggars, galley slaves and kings, But Theodore this moral learn'd ere dead; Fate pour'd its lesson on his living head-- Bestow'd a kingdom and denied him bread." Unfortunate Theodore, who, on leaving the prison without a sixpence in his pocket, took refuge with a tailor in Soho, where three days later he died. Who out of those passing through the churchyard pause to give a thought to Theodore or to ponder Walpole's reflections on "The grave, great teacher". We found we should have to make a detour to get inside the church, which lies at a level below the churchyard and is shut off by an iron railing. So we retraced our steps along Shaftesbury Avenue and into Dean Street. The church door was open and some one inside was practising on the organ. The sound came faintly as we entered the porch, and rushed out to meet us with a burst of melody as we pushed back the inner door. The player was performing to an empty church, and I recognised the rhythm of the tumbling notes as Bach's. How many times have I clambered the gallery stairs of this same old church to listen to the music of John Sebastian! Strangely enough, it was the recollection of those occasions which had prompted my visit this afternoon. Good old John! who can sweep away the cobwebs like a March wind with one of his fugues, set one smiling at the tender grace of a pastorale, or thrill one with that solemn and awful summons to Calvary in the dramatic opening of the Passion Music. The fugue gave place to a quaint old dance, and Spring, which was paying a premature visit to the Soho streets outside, stole with the sunshine through the windows into the church. With it came a dream, and as I listened to the music, ladies in silk petticoats, with patches and powder, and gentlemen in wigs and knee breeches paced gravely through a minuet in the aisle. It was irreverent, but John Sebastian was to blame, and somehow the dancers seemed no more out of place than did the sunbeams which found entrance through the dusty windows. Mrs. Darling had gone to read the "Roll of Honour" in a corner of the church decorated by flags. She has sounded depths in life which are outside my experience, and I do not like to obtrude my presence at such moments. I could see her from where I sat wiping her eyes, yet I knew that presently she would come back with a cheerful face and some soul-destroying remark which would knock the bottom out of my dreams. There is no pose with Mrs. Darling. It was as I expected. She wanted to know if the man was tuning the organ? Oh, Mrs. D.! What is the tie which binds me to your prosaic, plush-jacketed person? Why do I court your unappreciative companionship, and sacrifice _you_ to my mania for imparting information?