solitude you may perish and rot away, nor any living being ever come near to canonize your bones. And that sound, that awful voice of solitude, how dreadful it is! We know of no Poet who has ever described it, nor can we! As of a coming earthquake, or the tremor of the invisible volcano, it is-frightful, appalling, overwhelming. Wilson only, in his noble address to the Wild Deer, seems to have been conscious of this wondrous, mysterious noise of Nature; but even that great man, with all his astonishing genius, has not been able accurately to define it. However, the quotation is so appropriate to the scene I have attempted to describe, that I shall quote it for the general reader :"What lonely magnificence stretches around! Each sight how sublime, how awful each sound! All hush'd and serene as a region of dreams, The mountains repose 'mid the roar of the streams, Their glens of black umbrage by cataracts riven, But calm their blue tops in the beauty of Heaven. Here, the glory of Nature hath nothing to fear Though Time, the destroyer, in power hath been here: And the forest that hung on yon mountain so high, Like a black thunder cloud on the arch of the sky, Hath gone, like that cloud, when the tempest came by!" -Professor Wilson.

Aye, Nature, great, glorious, omnipotent art thou in all thy marvellous designs, thy wondrous ministrations ! To thy breast must the Poet come and worship if he would dream aright of the splendour and magnificence

of creation. What in crowded halls and stately marts of fashion can be met with equal to thee and thy august brotherhood? Do we court high society, the aristocracy, princes, potentates, the mighty and the proud? Why that oak tree before me is old as the most ancient Norman baron-he is the scion of a noble and ancient house, and has descended through nine centuries of tempest and cloud, and is yet august and venerable in his old age. Away pride! Vanish ancestral pomp! Its father was an acorn. And ye, beetling precipices and august rocks, in what age were you created? What noble families can trace back their lineage, like you,— time, eternity, chaos, the crack of doom! You heard the breath of God speak from Chaos-you shuddered in your strength when the black waters of Deucalion thundered o'er your fearless brows-and there, undaunted and unterrified you will stand, when the angel with 66 one foot on the sea, and one foot on the shore" shall sound the dreadful summons, and earth, and ocean, and blue heaven itself, shall be rolled up like a scroll, mouldering and perishing for evermore. Talk of aristocracy! Behold I converse with the aristocracy of Nature-with God Almighty's own aristocracy! Let us then hear of Poets seeking "good society" no more.

And now our wanderings are over, our pilgrimage is done! The mountain torrent, the overhanging rocks, the dense forest scenery, our "hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach" of the cliffs, all are concluded and live not, save in memory. The fine remains

of Kilton Castle, on which we would fain moralize,— Skinningrove so romantic and picturesque (which, had we space, we would gladly describe)-the towering cliffs along the sea, all are past, and the last of our Cleveland fishing tours is at an end :

"My task is done, my song hath ceased, my theme
Hath died into an echo; it is fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream.
The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
My midnight lamp—and, what is writ, is writ—
Would it were worthier! but I am not now
That which I have been-and my visions flit
Less palpably before me,-and the glow

Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint, and low."

Childe Harold.

CLEVELAND SKETCHES.

PRINCE OSWY.

A LEGEND OF ROSEBERRY.

"What is good for a bootless bene?

And the Lady answered, 'Endless sorrow."
Inscription on Bolton Priory.

The harvest moon was waning

O'er Arncliff's rich domain,
The silver stars shone sweetly
On rock and woody plain,
When from her stately dwelling
Northumbria's Frincess trode,

To question that fam'd Augur
In Arncliffe who abode.

"O, say, mysterious stranger
(That to these sightless eyes
Dost seem of Royal lineage ;)
What seek's thou of the skies ?

I know each planet's motion,
Can track each silent star,
And comet-like can wander

The firmament afar!"

“O, wise and dreadful wizard, A godlike gift is thine,

To read each starry missal,

To con each planet-line!
Of proud Northumbria's treasure

The darling of my love,

What speak yon heavenly prophets? What say yon orbs above?"