chamber casements. There is indeed a broad, smooth green, on which a few trees have been planted; and a neat school and schoolhouse in two separate styles of architecture-with limes in front, and a house well nigh covered with ivy; yet these objects, pretty in themselves, are too few to relieve the dulness of uniformity.

East of the village stands the church, a modern edifice, erected to commemorate the completion by George the Third of the fiftieth year of his reign. It is of one who once formed a living Pillar of this church that we are about to treat. The structure is perfectly plain and neat, although composed of two styles; a defect, however, generally overlooked by travellers, whose admiration it gains, and to whom-particularly if they approach from the north-it has for some time been a conspicuous object. Poets and painters would not praise it. It stands too much alone, and seems so. The church-yard is elevated above the road and fields, is surrounded by a sunk fence, and contains not a single tree: circumstances which detract greatly from its beauty, but are quite unperceived by the parishioners, not a dozen of whom, we venture to affirm, know that it is dedicated (nominally) in honour of St. John the Evangelist. Externally a long inscription, somewhat pompously, announces the end for which it was built: in fact, unintentionally no doubt, exhibits the noble and well-intentioned founder as a character the very reverse of his

"Who builds a church to God and not to fame."

Pity, ten thousand pities, that to win this fame, and display a loyal feeling, those consulted judged it necessary to destroy the Old Church of East Witton, and to remove the site.

The Old Church! Oh what solemn thoughts and beautiful memories those simple words evoke! They bring back the buried-the forgotten Past, in all its actual freshness; or rather, they take us into it, till we seem to live with our ancestors; to behold them, walk with them-hold converse with them, and exchange of thought; yet all through an evident though slight veil, as if a mist hung between us, waiting for the sunrise to disperse it. And the sunrise will come, after we likewise have passed through the shadow.

The Old Church! Years shrink into daysinto moments. As the present stirring, breathing time, becomes the unrecorded date when the first stone was laid and blessed, and men, who now are the dust around it, laboured to complete that grey pile. Lost is that date-lost with the era of transition from Paganism to Christianity. Lost with the prelates, and kings, and princes, and mighty men who were of oldour natural fathers, whom we in our pride of strength remember not. Their deeds are mystery, a theme for controversy. Their homespalaces once-are unknown, or tenanted by wild things. Their ashes may rest beneath our feet, under our very hearthstone, or far away in the

wide green fields or dark sighing woods; but a day draws nigh when we shall know them, meeting face to face, founders and destroyersparents and sons, that are indeed brothers likewise, all being children of one common parent.

The Old Church! What tempests have swept through the land since it first reared its tower above the greensward! Earthquake convulsions, astounding revolutions, changing all that was changeable, annihilating dynasties and laws, altering even the very ideas of men; leaving nothing untouched save the ground's surface, and the hills and the streams, and in a great measure the once sacred edifice. It looms a landmark through time, standing the apparent bond connecting the old and the new. We walk within the same walls, and beneath the identical roof which formerly sheltered the kindred dead, who seem not to have departed altogether, since within the peaceful shadow of the fane only the turf and the brown soil hide their bones from us. It is a place which, albeit its sanctity may have departed, yet exercises great influence over the thoughtful mind, inducing sad and holy meditations.

But alas for East Witton! Such musings may hardly be indulged there; since, as we said before, when the lordly proprietor determined to build a church in compliment to his venerable sovereign, he was persuaded to destroy the fine old fane, and erect his new fabric nearly a quarter of a mile away. Still, however, the graveyard remains, with all its dear associations: that graveyard to which, from a period long anterior to the foundation of the neighbouring abbey, the grey sires of the hamlet, full of years, and the early smitten flowers who perished in their beauty, were committed to await the resurrection; and where at this day the old families by preference lay their dead.

A sweet retired spot it is by the hill side, a green pleasant nook apart; just such an one as maid or minstrel might fancifully select wherein to sleep "the sleep that knows no waking." Trees grow around it, and mark the place where once the altar stood, and the Most Holy Sacrifice was offered for the living and the dead. Flowers of the earliest blossom all about amongst the long silky grass, nodding and waving over mouldering tombs and undulating mounds, emblematical of the first and second life of those who slumber beneath; and when the April zephyrs sigh through the mountain-ashes, or murmur along the dark high fell, the robins that love to haunt there blend their cheerful song with the soft harmony of the Parson's Beck-so named ages ago-as it ripples below with a subdued tone, as though it would chaunt a lullaby to their rest who repose beside its stream.

But, seduced by this topic, we are forgetting our theme-"The Pillar of the Church;" of whom indeed we have little to write-a short imperfect record. He, poor man, would certainly not have sympathized with our reflections, for his duties and pleasures alike bound him closely to St. John's; which church for importance had in his view no superior, no-not

sexton.

Our earliest recollections of John Howardhe bore the surname of the ducal house, and for aught we know derived his blood from the same source-are connected with a regimental coat given him by some retired militia officer, which attracted our attention as he used to sit day after day on an old stump outside our grounds. This military garment, stripped of lace, and worn both Sunday and week-days, we believe on various occasions procured him sixpences and shillings from strangers; as, although his appearance was anything but warlike, accident had deprived him of a leg, for which a tin substitute did duty. Thus, spite of unsoldierly bearing, he had some dim resemblance to a mutilated warrior.

During many years, whoever passed East Witton church on Sundays, was sure to see that old man at his post, leaning on his stick, and holding in one hand a whip of office as boy and dog-whipper. There he stood by the doorway, grave and sedate, with a happy consciousness of dignity written on his wrinkled countenance, until perchance some noisy urchins made rather more clamour in the church-yard than accorded with his notions of decorum; then he stalked forth, shaking and cracking his whip at the culprits, who of course easily kept out of reach, and dearly loved to tease him. Various and terrible were the punishments with which he threatened them, and bootless-save as incentives to merry laughter-were his denunciations; so, after increasing in every possible way the din he meant to subdue, he usually relinquished his unsuccessful chase, exclaiming with a resigned air, They're ower mony for ma-they clean bet ma!"

Sunday of course was John's chief day of duty, consequently of pleasure and pride; but his connection with the church did not cease on week-days. In some northern parishes a bell rings for a few minutes every morning at eight o'clock, and again at noon, and at five in the afternoon. This is probably a forgotten relic of the Angelus, that sweet chime heard in all Catholic lands, and now again, after a discontinuance of three hundred years, in many parts of this, calling upon the faithful to say a short prayer in memory of our Saviour's becoming man for our salvation. The original intention of the signal is of course forgotten; it serves merely to summons the work-people to or from their labour.

This tintinnabulatory duty devolved on John, and faithfully and well was it performed. He liked the task-neither winter's snows nor summer's thunders delayed him. Punctually as the clock's last stroke ceased, his bell pealed its allotted time; though he was miserably remunerated for limping more than a quarter of a mile and back, twice daily. At East Witton the bell is not rung at noon. True, if indifferently paid the fault was principally his own, for the parochial authorities gave him rather more than

some things simple enough in the world's ways. Marriages and funerals were also interesting events to our hero, as requiring his attendance at St. John's, his fondness for which edifice induced our budding fancy to dub him THE PILLAR OF THE CHURCH, because it appeared next to an impossibility, in his imagination. that the establishmeut could go on without him. The only time we ever knew John in a real passion, was once when "fond Kitty Bell of Middleham❞—(a character deserving a chapter to himself)-insisted on tolling the bell at a funeral, thus usurping the old man's office; a species of crime in his eye little short of high treason.

The church-yard walks were objects of his especial care. He had at one period been em ployed at Swinton Park, the seat of the wellknown W. Danby, Esq., and prided himself somewhat upon his knowledge of gardening. Certainly he kept the walks, of which there were several, in excellent order; free from weeds, and neatly trimmed and swept. On summer evenings you might generally find him in them, working away leisurely, and often, very often, a little child playing beside him; for, amongst his other accomplishments, John was an excel lent nurse-little children always loved to be with him. It could not be his beauty that at tracted them, for he squinted dreadfully; but there was something kind and gentle in the old man's manner; he made them simple play things, and sung them old songs, and soothed their infantine griefs; and was as tender and watchful over them as any blooming girl could have been. He had shown himself a fond and indulgent father.

We have heard that when young and active, our humble friend was in constant requisition at all the feasts and dances in the country side; a universal favourite with the village maidens, acknowledged the best dancer within many miles, and the merriest at a song or tale. Alas! Time's ravages extend to the lowly as to the high! When we first knew John Howard, he little resembled the agile youth of fifty year previous, yet to the last he kept a merry heart, which indeed caused the only scrapes in which we ever knew him involved. Sometimes when the farmers met at the Blue Lion, to take a friendly glass, and generally on the Marquis of A- 's half-yearly rent-days, when warmed with companionship and wine, they would sum mon John to sing them his cheerful songs; and on these occasions our hero very frequently er ceeded the bounds of sobriety. Not that he drank much probably, but at other season! nothing stronger than water passed his lips, so a few horns of ale, or a glass of spirits and water-and both were liberally given-quickly overcame him. When elevated he became noisy, though unimpeachably goodnatured, and

*This term is applied in the north of England to an idiot.

NETLEY ABBEY.

A deep solemnity steals o'er the soul
While gazing on a ruined sanctuary :
The clouds of ages seem as a curtain
To roll back, displaying mental scenes,
Where every actor in those days, now dead,
Again perform their parts as though they liv'd.
Thou vast memento of departed greatness,
That stood the test of ages long since gone!
Thy fading grandeur tells of influence,
'Neath which proud kings and high nobility,
Barons of old, and ladies young and gay,
Succumbed in humbleness or awful dread-
Tells of unbending sacerdotal pride,
Whose duty 'twas to teach humility.
The holy charm of thy vast walls is gone;
Now weeds, rank weeds and nettles, spring,
To hold possession of thy honour'd fane!
The wild, uncultivated ash, self-sown

Within the aisle where kings were proud to kneel,
Stretches his giant arms above thy walls,
As though protecting thee from Time's rude hand,
Yet smiling in his mimic patronage,

Green in his youth amidst your crumbling age.
Five centuries are past since thy strong walls
Were rear'd in Christian triumph o'er the land.
Armies were proud thy power to protect,
And deem'd it not unholy to shed blood
In the defence of that most blessed creed
Which came upon the earth to nurture peace.
What art thou now? a show to please the idle,
Who's dull stupidity indites some name,
With date, to tell the world what fools they were,
Destroying that which time has left untouched!

From these grey walls, now mould'ring into dust,
Forth peal'd sweet choral music o'er the stream,
Filling the hearts of toiling mariners
With adoration, praise unspeakable!
Here was the sanctuary both for rich and poor,
The culprit sinner and the broken-hearted;
Here consolation and the poenal lash
Were both dispensed with uncheck'd power:
The soothing smile and withering frown held sway
O'er those whose blind and superstitious fear
Taught them to dread the influence of learning.

Here, on this spot, where heaps of ruin lie,
The venerable priest doled out his daily prayer;
And the bright censer breath'd its incense forth,
To steal upon the senses of the crowd,
And cloud their faculties with imposition.
And may be, on this spot where now thou standest,
A maiden, young and fair, young as thyself,
As beauteous, as innocent, and good,
Came to confess, in solitude to God;
Who, kneeling to her rosary with care,
Appointing to each bead some sinful thought
Imaginary; whilst her heart was bowed,
And her bright eye distilled hot burning tears,
In agony and abject humbleness.

And near to her another, quite as young,
Murmured a prayer to heaven for her love
Who, cased in steel, had gone to Palestine,
To fight the battle of the blessed cross.

Through yon high window beam'd a stream of light,
Stain'd with the chequer'd dye of pictur'd saints-
True patterns of a Christian martyrdom,
Standing inanimated types of faith!
How many wept whilst gazing on the glass!

Who can recount the myriad stirring thoughts
That fill'd the minds of those who lived
With men, whose int'rest 'twas to keep their serfs
And cringing vassals deeply merged
In darkest ignorance, that they might sell
A pardon plenary from Holy Rome
For the full price of labour or of gold?
As if the God of all the World would take
A sacrifice for sin in glittering earth!

Here stood the lengthy cloisters, dull and cold,
Where rigid monks have wandered, day by day,
Mutt'ring their orisons in humble garb,
Rehearsing for the matin's tinkling call,
With eyes bent down in deep humility.
Who knows what hearts rebellious beat within;
What thoughts obtrusive for the outward world,
Struggled to check their heaven-intended prayers,
And raised the thing created 'gainst its God?

Here stood the wide refectory well-paved;
And here the yawning chimney, made to hold
The blazing fire bright with glowing logs,
That welcom'd smiling, many well-fed joints,
Which, hissing, made the shavelings to rejoice,
In the sweet loethe of the tedious Lent.
Who knows how many a full-fed buck,
Ta'en from the forest where King Rufus fell,
Which, being basted in its own rich fat,
Sent a sweet savour through these gloomy walls,
To change the bias of the holy thoughts
Of those who lived in solitude and prayer?
Who knows the misery they must have felt,
When they apostrophised the purple wine
That, bubbling, joyous kissed their patient lips,
And made them think heaven a welcome change
When-they could live no longer on the earth ?

Yes, they are gone! all changed by with'ring
Time:

And thou, old ruin, grey with many years,
Ere many years to come have pass'd away,
May be but number'd with the things that were,
And chronicled but in the memory of the few!
OIDA.

IN THE SHADOW OF GREEN BOUGHS.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Trees, which please us for their shadow,

Give with shade and shadow thoughts, Different-as from mount the meadowFrom the wreathëd rack that floats O'er the mental sky, thick-clouded With a swarm of dazzling motes.

In the woods I wander, finding

Shade, that comes not from the dark; Shrouds, that are not always winding Round the chilly human ark,

Whence, its freight of life death-plunder'd, Cometh now nor dove nor lark!

For at seasons joy rejoiceth

Not the less for sunshine lostNot the less for song that voiceth No mirth peans, echo-cross'dNot the less for that it needeth Silence, when it feeleth most!