heavy rent-heavy in proportion to what it was formerly; but if your mill and land do not clear it easily, the steward must consider the matter, and let you have them, so that you can live upon them."

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‘Kind, kind, vera, vera!" gratefully replied the miller, raising his cap higher on his forehead, and regarding his visitor with much respect. "Aw's gretely obleeged to ye're Honour; an' mony a rogue wad tak advantage iv ye're gud intentions; but Aw hae ney reeson to complain. An honest man can aylways work his way; an' though Aw see by ye're smile that ye're pleased to doubt iv a miller's honesty, still Aw can say, that Aw ay strave to dey the fair thing. Throughout the hail time when Aw had the mill at the twenty pound, Aw niver tuik an unjust handfu' iv eyther meal, groats or corn. Only we're a', please ye, Sir, like the pillars iv a beelding-when grete weights are laid on us, we just hae to press the mair upon where we stand. Ye're honour knaws what Aw mean?"

"Not exactly," said the landlord, "but this I know that if you act uprightly, and can pay your rent now, your profits formerly must have been very great!

"If ye're Honour wad please to step up," replied the miller, adhering to his own method of illustration, "Aw's willin' tiv explain t'ye the hail affair. We hae ney flour pokes i' the road, an' ye'll come down again as clean as a pin." He then led the way up a kind of irregular stair, and was followed by the other till they reached a platform, or floor, where several sacks filled with corn were set together. Beside the hopper stood a half-bushel measure containing a quantity of wheat, with a round concave wooden dish, about seven inches in diameter, partly buried amongst the grain. Taking up the small utensil in his hand the miller continued: “Now, Sir, this is what we ca' the Moutar Dish, an' that's a Kenning there, ye see: we measure a' the corn wiv that. Weel, when ma rent was twenty pound, out iv every kenning iv corn that com here, Aw tuik this dish yence full. When Aw was put up tiv thurty pound, Aw tuik't twice full: an' now when Aw's at forty pound, Aw tak’t thrice full, for moutar, out iv every kenning Aw grind. Now, please ye, Sir, this is just the plan Aw's forc't to follow, to mak the rent up. Honesty's the best iv policy' as the say rins; an' ye're Honour, Aw knaw, winnut dey me an ill turn, for tellin' the truth."

:

They descended the stair, and the landlord now regarded his tenant with no small degree of surprise. He scarcely knew whether the unwarrantable freedom taken with the grist which came to the mill, in order to meet the increased rent, was more deserving of reprehension, than the candour, with which it had been exhibited even to himself, was worthy of praise. Shortly afterwards the miller's

dame appeared, supporting in her hand a vessel about the size of a quart, nearly full of home-brewed ale, and he himself observed :"When a beggar comes to the door, be't man or woman, they mun eyther hae bite or sup; an' when ye're Honour visits us, sartenly ye're entitled, an' hartily welcome tiv the best iv the hoose." The female produced the liquor, and poured out a mantling horn to the landlord, who drank it off, and complimented her on its quality; then wishing the couple "good day," he respectfully took his leave.

This interview, plain and homely as the matters involved therein were discussed, especially by the miller, terminated much more happily than he was led to expect. The landlord was in the fullest sense of the word a good man; and had he not felt sore at being outstripped time after time, by the miller's mare, the rent of the Clock Mill and the adjoining enclosures, had remained unaltered. It was neither his wish nor will to rack or grind his tenantry; but to know and see them prosperous, called forth in his bosom sensations of the most gratifying description, for his was a heart open to all the kindlier influences of our nature. His steward was like himself, a straightforward, well meaning man, who misrepresented nothing; but performed his duty honestly between all parties, and never employed his authority as a means of either insulting a humble individual, or of partially accommodating one in affluent circumstances. The miller, therefore, stood a fair chance of receiving liberal treatment at their hands; and, accordingly, he was neither turned away, nor deemed a dishonest man, nor, in the way of trade, were the customary favours of either withdrawn; but his rent was immediately lowered to twenty pounds; he hunted upon Bonny his gallant mare, as often and as eagerly as he pleased; and he was satisfied with taking only one dishful from every kenning of grain that came to be put through the Clock Mill.

It is pleasing to look back and contemplate an extensive rural district with its farms and fields, when the connection between proprietors and occupiers, as occasion served, was calmly investigated, and arranged, generally, to the satisfaction of either party. Such a system tended, in an especial degree, to the benefit of all, not merely in a pecuniary point of view, but by fostering all our powerful associations; and it afforded unlimited scope for the operation of those amiable and benevolent qualities which have ever constituted a most distinguishing feature of the English character. Far more rests in the hands of our land owners, by way of conciliating turbulent impressions and establishing peace throughout the kingdom, than our farsighted lawgivers are willing to understand. In former times, when our tenantry were universally treated with kindness, and their labourers had employment and food in abundance, the sound of politics,

and the feverish excitement arising therefrom, scarcely ever entered "the happy homes of England." The wandring minstrels found a welcome at every hearth, and their music and song were a thousand times preferable to the inflated and designing language, which the devotees of every faction have uttered and are still uttering throughout the country. It would be wrong to charge the amount of our national evils on any particular class of men; but some blame evidently rests on that large portion of our landed gentry who have endeavoured to raise the amount on their rent rolls beyoud an equitable standard, and sacrificed, thereby, those endearing ties which bound English feelings, sympathies and patriotism together. Whatever changes may take place amongst the orders of society, the aristocracy of Britain would do well not to disregard the agricultural classes. They are a numerous body of men, on whose strength more may depend than can yet be foreseen. Always capable of enduring fatigue, amid winter's cold or summer's heat, they still inherit so much of the martial spirit of their ancestors, that should they consider it their duty to put on the panoply of war, they will not, in the hour of trial, readily turn their backs upon a foe.-R. White's MSS.

The Tunstall Rose.

On Tunstall grows the bonny rose,
At Hetton, the lily pale;

But the bonny Rose, wont kythe* with Bowes,
Sweet lily of the vale.

A junior branch of the family of Shadforth, of Eppleton, was seated at Tunstall; and Anthony Shadforth, of Tunstall, (who died in 1650) had several daughters. Isabel, married Frances Jenkinson; Mary, married Henry Bowes, of Newcastle; Rebecca, married Robert Dela-vale, of Little Eden, Esq.; and Eleanor, married Edward Dale, of Dalton-le-Dale, gentleman. The allusion may possibly apply to Mary, (the rose of the fair state) who might refuse to kythe with Bowes at the time the stanza was written, and yet alter her mind afterwards. The other allusions are now, and perhaps for ever, buried in obscurity.-Sharp's Bishoprick Garland.

• Kythe-kin-be a-kin to.

HERE blooming Cocken rears her bounteous head,
Embower'd in verdant shades of deep repose,

And, gently murmuring o'er its rocky bed,

The winding Wear in wild meanders flows;

The ruins of an ancient Abbey stand,*
Destroy'd by time's inexorable hand.

Here, may the proud, licentious young and gay
A most instructive, useful lesson find;
They tell, thus all things hasten to decay,
Thus leave the relics of their pomp behind :
Far more than words, the solemn fragments shew
The empty vanity of all below.

Where once the venerable fabric rose,

Its mould'ring columns lie in broken heaps;

O'er the once marbled floor the bramble grows,

And round the pillars twining ivy creeps:

The dusky isles, forsaken and forlorn;

O'ergrown with moss, and shagg'd with horrid thorn.

* The ruins of Finchale Priory are situated in a secluded spot, in the parish of St. Oswald, on the western side of the river Wear, at the distance of nearly three miles from Durham. This place appears to have been of some note in the time of the Saxons; a synod having been held here so early as 792, and another as Leland states, in 810.

Here, solemn silence holds her awful reign,
Save when the stock-dove cooing thro' the grove,
In concert with the water's fretful strain,

In piteous accent mourns her absent love;

Or when nocturnal glooms obscure the skies,
The boding raven croaks, the screech owl cries.

Then timid fancy, overcome with fear,

Sees hideous spectres dart across the gloom:

Hears from the vaults loud shrieks, and groans most drear,
And solemn voices from the hollow tomb:
Combining horrors chill the vital blood,

And stop the progress of the crimson flood.

Avaunt ye airy phantoms of the brain!

Chimera's dire! imagination's brood!

'Tis your's alone to haunt the guilty train,
Whose sanguine hands are bath'd in human blood;
Undaunted virtue rears aloft her head,

For conscious innocence has nought to dread,

Here once, with solemn grandeur, o'er the flood
Its lofty spires projecting many a shade,
Magnificient the sacred mansion stood,
By stern and gloomy superstition sway'd;
Her legends, to the consecrated shrine,
Imputing miracles and power divine.*

Here, e'er the lark's shrill matin wak'd the morn,
Rous'd by th' accustom'd solemn sounding bell,
Each visionary, pensive sage forlorn,

Left the retirement of his cloister'd cell;

Whilst the deep organ's bold majestic sound,
And vocal choir, the echoing walls rebound.

This Abbey is rendered famous by the austerities of St. Godric, born at Walpole in Norfolk, who, after twice performing the pilgrimage to Jerusalem, came, directed by a vision, to Finchale, where he erected a chapel and hermitage. Here be resided sixtysix years, practising "unheard-of austerities," which, in the eyes of a superstitious and ignorant people, were sufficient to invest his character with a high degree of sanctity. The mortifications to which he subjected his body, if not laudable, were extremely severe. He wore an iron jerkin, mingled ashes with the flour of which he made his bread, and, not unfrequently, passed whole nights at his devotions, immersed up to his chin in water. He died in 1170, and was then admitted, on account of his uncommon penances, and the great miracles he is said to have performed, into the calendar of the saints.