Here, also, is a monument to the unfortunate Sir Augustine Nichols, Chief Justice of the Common Pleas, poisoned when on circuit at Kendal in 1616. But the most curious object in Kendal Church is the epitaph upon a former vicar, the Reverend Ralph Tyrer, B.D., who died in June 1627. The curious rhymes of which it is composed are said to have been written by himself; but, however that may be, it is certain that whoever was the author of them was keenly desirous of puzzling posterity. He has done it effectually, too. He has set out, in his rugged and uncouth way, that— London bred me, Westminster fed me, Cambridge sped me, My sister wed me, Study taught me, Living sought me, Learning brought me, Kendal caught me, Labour pressed me, Sickness distressed me, Death oppressed me, The grave possessed me, God first gave me, Christ did save me, Earth did crave me, Heaven would have me. “My sister wed me”: that is the crux of the matter; but it does not appear that this is to be taken seriously, in its ordinary meaning. As to the real interpretation, we are offered at least two stories: the one that his sister, finding him too busy or too diffident a man to do his own wooing, conducted his courtship for him and provided him with a wife of her own choosing. In that case, she dared much. The alternative theory is that the word “sister,” as used here, is intended to bear an academical meaning, and to indicate that he was educated at Cambridge but admitted _ad eundem_ afterwards to the “sister University” of Oxford. The people of Kendal were turbulent folk in the old days, and varied the humdrum existence of woollen manufacture and the printing of cottons by rioting: keeping up their reputation in this sort until the early years of the nineteenth century, when the first Parliamentary election was excuse sufficient for an outbreak. The making and the dyeing of the once famous “Kendal green” cloth is a thing of the past, and peace is now the characteristic of Kendal, but the reputation of the neighbourhood for incisive wit remains, in the ancient story of the horseman who asked a countryman the time o’ day. “Twelve o’clock,” said the man, looking at that rural chronometer, the sky. “Twelve!” exclaimed the traveller. “I thought it was more.” “Did y’ever know it to be moor nor twelve?” rejoined the man, turning away. The traveller, struck with this unusual rustic facility for repartee, sent his servant after him, to know if he would like a situation as a jester. “Here, fellow,” said the servant, “my master wants to know if you would like a place as fool.” The reply was disheartening: “Does he want two on ’em, then, or are you going to leave?”