One of the many writers who have chosen the Duddon for their theme, says that he has seldom witnessed anything so gratifying as the manner in which Mr Tyson greets his parishioners on a Sunday morning, as he passes through amongst the assembled groups in the church-yard. He might have increased his gratification by entering the church, and hearing the church service read in Mr Tyson's unpretending, but earnest and even affectionate style, and still more, by staying to hear one of his plain, practical, and convincing discourses, so perfectly adapted to the circumstances and understanding of his rustic congregation, and yet so good in their matter, so impressive in the manner of their delivery, and so excellent in their diction, composition, and arrangement of topics, that any congregation, the most polished and intellectual, might listen to them with the same pleasure and profit, as that with which they are evidently attended to by the simple-minded and uncultivated worshippers in Seathwaite. I have latterly made it a custom to go to Seathwaite once a year to hear Mr Tyson preach, which custom I mean to keep up, so long as I may be permitted. [Sidenote: KERNEL NOT HUSK.] I once witnessed a rather amusing scene occasioned by the plainness of Mr Tyson’s exterior. I had accompanied a gentleman from London on an excursion to Seathwaite, and introduced him to Mr Tyson, without thinking it requisite to mention his position in the parish, and noticed with some surprise, that whilst the worthy parson, with his usual ready kindness, was shewing us through the chapel, and pointing out the remarkables in its vicinity, my companion scarcely treated him with the consideration due to his rank, character, and profession; but my surprise increased almost to consternation, when the stranger, looking over his shoulder to our venerable Cicerone, asked very abruptly, “but, I say, who _is_ the parson here?” Mr Tyson looked rather astonished for an instant, but immediately answered, with some little dignity, “_I_ am the parson, sir—for want of a better.” The gentleman's hat was off directly, and, with a deep obeisance, a muttered apology was tendered to what he doubtless thought the clergyman’s insulted dignity.—“Yes, sir,” continued Mr Tyson, “I am the parson here, and if you calculated upon finding parsons in these dales dressed in black silk stockings and broad-cloth breeches, you see you have been mistaken!” [Sidenote: A WORD FOR MINERS.]