e to this valley to raise their
building. It was their house, till with the wood and stone around them,
their labour and their fine art, they piled up their abbey. And then
they were driven out of it, and it came to this. Poor men! poor men!"

"They would hardly have forfeited their resting-place had they deserved
to retain it," said Egremont.

"They were rich. I thought it was poverty that was a crime," replied the
stranger in a tone of simplicity.

"But they had committed other crimes."

"It may be so; we are very frail. But their history has been written by
their enemies; they were condemned without a hearing; the people rose
oftentimes in their behalf; and their property was divided with those on
whose reports it was forfeited."

"At any rate, it was a forfeiture which gave life to the community,"
said Egremont; "the lands are held by active men and not by drones."

"A drone is one who does not labour," said the stranger; "whether he
wear a cowl or a coronet, 'tis the same to me. Somebody I suppose must
own the land; though I have heard say that this individual tenure is not
a necessity; but however this may be, I am not one who would object to
the lord, provided he were a gentle one. All agree the Monastics were
easy landlords; their rents were low; they granted leases in those days.
Their tenants too might renew their term before their tenure ran out: so
they were men of spirit and property. There were yeomen then, sir: the
country was not divided into two classes, masters and slaves; there was
some resting-place between luxury and misery. Comfort was an English
habit then, not merely an English word."

"And do you really think they were easier landlords than our present
ones?" said Egremont, inquiringly.

"Human nature would tell us that, even if history did not confess it.
The Monastics could possess no private property; they could save no
money; they could bequeath nothing. They lived, received, and expended
in common. The monastery too was a proprietor that never died and never
wasted. The farmer had a deathless landlord then; not a harsh guardian,
or a grinding mortgagee, or a dilatory master in chancery, all was
certain; the manor had not to dread a change of lords, or the oaks to
tremble at the axe of the squandering heir. How proud we are still in
England of an old family, though, God knows, 'tis rare to see one now.
Yet the people like to say, We held under him, and his father and his
grandfather