s an aspect of more than ordinary beauty.

One wild scene, the subject of our legend, the pencil, not the pen,
must describe. It would be impossible, in any other manner, to convey
an adequate idea of its extreme loveliness and grandeur. It is here
known by its Saxon appellation, "the Thrutch," or Thrust, signifying a
narrow, but deep and rugged channel in the rocks. Through this cleft
the Spodden bursts with great force, forming several picturesque
falls, which, though of mean height, yet, combined with the
surrounding scenery, few behold without an expression of both wonder
and delight.

The ancient corn-mill was here situated, just below the mansion. From
the "Grist Yate," by the main road to Rochdale, a winding horse-way,
paved with stones set on edge, led down the steep bank and pointed to
the sequestered spot where for ages the clack of the hopper and the
plash of the mill-wheel had usurped a noisy and undisputed possession.

In the reign of our fourth Edward--we know not the precise year--an
occurrence, forming the basis of the following legend, is supposed to
have taken place,--when fraud and feud were unredressed; when bigotry
and superstition had their "perfect work;" when barbaric cruelty, and
high and heroic deeds, had their origin in one corrupt and common
source, the passions of man being let loose, in wild uproar,
throughout the land; when the wars of the Roses had almost desolated
the realm, and England's best blood flowed like a torrent. Such was
the aspect of the time to which the following events relate.

It was in the beginning of the year, at the close of an unusually
severe winter. The miller's craft was nigh useless, the current of the
rivulet was almost still. Everything seemed so hard and frost-bound,
that nature looked as though her fetters were rivetted for ever. But
the dark and sterile aspect she displayed was bedizened with such
beauteous frost-work, that light and glory rested upon all, and winter
itself lost half its terrors.

Ralph Miller often looked out from his dusty, dreary tabernacle,
watching the icicles that accumulated on his wheel, and the scanty
current beneath, the hard surface of the brook scarcely dribbling out
a sufficient supply for his daily wants.

Every succeeding morn saw the liquid element becoming less, and the
unhappy miller bethought him that he would shut up the mill
altogether, until the reign of the frozen king should expire.

A seven-weeks' frost was ra