summer months, have I wandered thy broad and healthy strands-marked the rising and setting sun over that vast domain of ocean-or, sailing along those snow-topped billows, held high converse with the spirits of the waves, and cherished fair hopes and aspirations, alas, rising and falling like themselves. And oh, what noble and magnificent object is the sea! What power, and strength, and glory; what loveliness, and peacefulness, and melody lie mingled with its waves. Behold it in storm-it

a

struggles like a lion in its cage; see it in calm-it breathes unutterable melody, like the cushat brooding over its young. The sea-birds how joyously they dash amid the spray-the heavy cormorant, with what melancholy pride he sweeps along, like the spirit of shipwreck and storm. All great poets have adored thee, old ocean; -yea, future ages will listen with rapture to hymns that record thy praise. How magnificent is that grand ode of Byron, in Childe Harold:

"Roll on thou dark and deep blue ocean, roll

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain!" Veering round westward, from yon broad bay of the Tees, that now shines like a lake of gold, beneath the broad effulgence of the setting sun, you see a large and increasing town, containing a good many thousand inhabitants—“ like to a young Cybele sprung from ocean" -that town is Middlesbrough! Ten years ago not one house, unless some solitary farm, stood on that part of the banks of the Tees. Now, behold as if by the wand of enchantment, whole streets of excellent houses-a

new and elegant church-docks, railroads, factories, warehouses; and, what supplies them all, or excites their enterprise, a whole forest of ships, waving their pennants in the air, and prepared to sweep, like lightning, to all the corners of the habitable globe! There, too, stands Stockton,-abode of the brave, the handsome, the generous, and the free. A wandering quack doctor, of the name of Granville,denounced it as a filthy den of iniquity, —that the men were inhospitable, and the women ugly. We are afraid his associates had been of a very inferior description. His residence must have been in certain precincts not to be named to ears polite. Had the brute seen any good society-had he witnessed the social board of its tradesmen and merchants, had he listened to the dulcet tones of its maidens, and gazed on their charming forms and lovely complexions, the foul lie would have been strangled in the throat of the slanderer, and the hiss of the viper been turned to the song of the nightingale! But Stockton needs no defence from us. Its own Poet Laureate, the Bard of " Home," like a stalwart champion as he is, buckled on his armour, for the defence of his native town, and right manfully did he grapple with this senseless calumniator, Granville, and unhorsed him into the mire and dust to his heart's content. fact, Stockton has always been foremost of all the neighbouring towns, not only in the active pursuits of commerce, but in the generous patronage of the arts, sciences, and especially of literature.

And now, my friend, "elevate

In

your vision," as the

great Sir Robert says, and lo! like a vast thread of silver, or some enormous boa constrictor, twines the picturesque Tees, now gleaming in beauty from lone spots of verdure, now lifting its waves, like the white crest of a warrior in battle, now sweeping in rapid tide, like a courser to the war. Few of the rivers of England unite so many agreeable associations as the Tees. It springs, if we remember correctly, near the giant hills of Westmoreland,—its course is through gorgeous woods of endless beauty, dashing over rocky cascades and precipitous waterfalls, or now a tumultuous cataract, and anon a pool of Paradise, reposing like a smiling child beneath the sunbeams. Richly, too, is it associated with times past, of conflict and war, of love and banquetting-and hast heard the dash of spears, or the sportive serenading song, as it touched by moonlight the grey walls of the Castle of Barnard, then joyous in the prime of chivalry, and when our old nobility yet bore the high and passionate Norman heroism in their veins. Glad too, O Tees, is thy pilgrimage through the waving woods of Gainford, where the great magician beheld thee in thy most varied forms! -and often has poet and lover, the one entranced by aspiring dreams of the ideal and remote, the other burning with the gentle fires of requited affection towards the one angel of the world at his side, wandering by thy pebbled shores, at evening, when all the groves were redolent with fragrance, blessed thee from his heart of hearts, for thy intoxicating music, that was almost as sweet as the first kiss of love, then implanted on that blushing maiden's lips!

Pass we on in our panorama. There is Hartlepool a Niobe all tears-a Venice of the waters-holding, as it were, the ocean in fee-the Neptune of the German waves-and with all yon panoply of towering masts, like an Armada, ready to thunder at its walls. Behold again the commercial enterprise of England. Where in the South, my friend, have you seen a spectacle like that? What are Ramsgate or Margate, Brighton or Gravesend, to that once petty promontory of land, but which, ere many centuries shall elapse, will become the "City of the Sea ?" Truly it is in the North of England where the pith, vigour, and animal energy of British commerce is now concentrating. But we must draw to a close, although the subject is so pleasing to ourselves, that we could willingly prolong the chord which for the last two hours has vibrated so pleasantly in our own soul. Farewell, now, thou old pile of Guisborough, soaring "like some tall Ammiral" to the clouds ;-farewell Redcar, with thy snowy beach; Middlesborough, with thy bay of ships; Hartlepool, with thy old square tower, and quaint caverned rocks; Stockton, with thy noble river, thy "honest men and bonnie lassies ;" and farewell, at length, noble, majestic Roseberry, so rich in tradition, and love, and poetry-tall, erect, and venerable mount, that hast for so many thousand years sustained the tempest and the storm, or slumbered, like a Titan, in the balmy sunshine of summer;-gaunt old record of Eternity-Farewell!

RURAL SKETCHES.

ANGLIANA, No. 1.

Pinchinthorpe, Newton, "Canny Yatton under Roseberry Topping," and now we have reached Stokesley. Stokesley cannot compare with Guisborough in the extent or variety of its scenery, but still it commands a portion of the noble range of Cleveland Hills, which confer a dignity and picturesqueness upon this place which is only to be obtained through an approximation with the splendour or magnificence of Nature. The houses are neatly and elegantly built, the main street wide and capacious, and it has thoroughly the appearance of a substantial, comfortable, and thriving agricultural community.

And now emerging forth, through the church-yard, and past the square-towered church, across the brook, along the meadows and hay fields, and leaving the Rectory House on our right, we reach, after a sojourn of two miles, the pleasant and delightful village of Kirby. Kirby reminds us strongly of Upleatham (allowing for the difference of site,) and has every appearance of comfort and domestic happiness. The church