ing orchards-how graceful the far-off streams-how noble that river rolling along like some vast golden snake amongst the grassy vales-how glorious and magnificent with its silver-bays, and rocky head-lands, the immense, the unfathomable sea! Right and lawful is thy claim, old Roseberry, to be the legitimate monarch of all our Yorkshire hills. And now, what merry, joyful sight is this? Young men and maidens, in comely array, seated on the mossy sward, and happy in the joy that enriches their own hearts, as, gazing in each other's eyes, they feel the inexpressible rapture which partakes nearest of true love, and which, for many years to come, will still be as a green osier in the wilderness of life. Here are manly swains, with gentle spirits, but brave and noble natures, who, after "following their plough along the mountain side" during the whole week, have come here this day to partake of the innocent mirth of the scene-not a few of them with lovely sweethearts on their arms, as happy as the mountain lambs that wanton at their feet! Gentle beings this is your season of hope, your season of joy. Treasure these feelings deep in your heart's core; for now is the time of rich youth,buoyant and exultant in health, and mighty in anticipation of the future! O rare holiday of delight, when two young lovers, sitting there, with all the rich treasures of nature piled at their feet, can sympathize with the unutterable depths of each other's human hearts, and can gather from the blue skies above them, and the green carpet of earth below, visions of felicity,

bright and rich-hued as the Gardens of Paradise. Alas, alas! so lived, and so loved, hundreds of blessed creatures, who thus lingered in passion, centuries ago, on the very spot you now inhabit. And now, behold, how like fawns of the woods, those young elastic urchins dance and skip amongst the rocks, and along the velvet sides of the hill, and how eagerly they shout and run, as the yellow oranges showered from above bounce over their heads. Like rough young cubs of the bear, they now embrace each other in the playful struggle, and anon, as brisk as the he-goat of the Welsh Mountains, bound from peak to peak, fearless alike of danger or contention! A little to the right, amongst the tall sedges, some boisterous and roystering blades, are emptying their wine into a large bowl, and the clear crystal waters of that pellucid spring are called into requisition to assist them. "That spring!"-What echoes of departed things of memory start up as we write of "that spring," She, the gentle, the beloved, whose eyes were of more cerulean lustre than yon great vault, now, so celestial bright,-whose golden strings of hair shone with brighter beauty than yon western clouds, now gilded by the evening sun-Alas, she too is departed-Another of the sunbeams of memory that play amongst the ruins of a lost and broken heart. "That spring!"

-there sat Lawrence Sterne, the friend of Stephenson Hall, then of Skelton Castle, and wound that wondrous legend of the fair child, heir of hereditary estates, who, like Undine, in the German story, was deluged and

drowned in the heavy spray of this crystal fountain, as she slept in seeming safety amidst the moss. But let us now, my friend, sit down on the tallest summit of the rock, and, as you are fond of a cigar, recline here, whilst I explain to you the various objects, so numerous and vivid, which on every side surround us. Southward you see the rich and blooming valleys which run towards Kildale, and further East the noble range of hills, which terminate on the one hand with

"Freebrough huge mount, immortal Arthur's tomb." and on the other with the Hamilton hills, where my venerated Wordsworth wrote those fine lines:

"Many a tempting Isle,

With Graces that never were imagin'd lay

Mid seas now steadfast! objects all for the eye
Of silent rapture: but we felt the while

We should forget them ;-they are of the sky,
And from our earthly memory fade away."

There too, on yon towering hills, all black and gloomy with the thick heath, stands the monument erected to the memory of Captain Cook, by Robert Campion, of Whitby. No man that ever sprung from the vigorous and healthy soil of our Cleveland vales, ever deserved a tribute of this sort more honestly than Captain Cook. Born within a few miles of where we now stand, he sojourned for a brief while among his native hills, and then, when yet navigation was in a state of comparative infancy, circumnavigated with brave heart and fearless purpose, the universal globe, and won laurels which will

bloom immortally on his brow, so long as the British bulwarks shall plough the raging deep. That monument has been gazed on by thousands of poor sailor boys, as they crossed the German seas-it has been seen like a beacon in the hour of peril and of dread—it has nerved the arm, and cheered the heart of many a bold mariner, bound for other lands and distant shores. Aye, the soul of our gallant Cook was fearless and aspiring as the Bird of Jove-like our own British oak, he flourished most in tempest and danger, and his name will ever be cherished in our history, as one of the most energetic, determined, and philanthropic of England's sons.

Lowering your eye eastward, beyond pleasant Hutton Lowcross, (where still lie the ruins of an old chapel of prayer), you will see, deeply surrounded by embowering woods, the peaceful and secluded town of Guisborough. It is one of the most ancient of our Cleveland villages, and has been held under manorial right of one of the descendants of the native Princes of Wales, for many centuries. It has always been famed for salubrity of air and healthfulness of climate. Venerable old Cambden likened it to one of the most delicious vales of Italy. Within its slaty cliffs, the art of manufacturing alum was first commenced in England, for which, I may inform you, Sir Thomas Chaloner received from the Pope one of the most malignant curses that ever emanated from that Church. You will find it the same as the curse of Ernulphus, recorded by Sterne, and there is a copy of the same in England, Vol. 1. Never did Nature glow

more charmingly, or in more brilliant forms, than around yon venerable Abbey, and peaceful Church, and fragrant orchards. High-Cliffe rears his august head in lofty grandeur, like a guardian king over that pleasant Eden -Cass-Rock looks down in sovereignty upon its primitive dwellings, and the woods of oak and fir, surround it with their rich summer foliage, and salute its ploughmen, evening and morn, with the most enchanting songs of birds; and even now I hear them, the thrush, the blackbird, and the linnet.

Bloom on, O Guisborough, in thy ancient prime. The stir of commerce-railways, foundries, and factory mills are yet banished from thy solitary domains—and if thy people sympathised with Nature, as Nature with them, then indeed the valley of Rasselas could not be more happy and contented than thine. Northward, beyond those comfortable farm-houses, and through that bird's eye view of the thick groves of Upleatham on the one side, and the Park wood on the other, stands Redcar, with the great German ocean, rolling its huge white billows at its feet. There the sea-nymphs curl their pearly locks at evening among the grassy cliffs-there the naiads disport themselves beneath the glistening shadows of the silver moon. Or, to modernize the simile, there the lovely damsels of Yorkshire bathe their snowy limbs in the health-inspiring waves, and there the neighbouring towns and villages pour their multitudes to drink in the fresh sea breezes, and inhale new vigour and energy from the ever-changing tides. Often, often, during the lovely