RURAL SKETCHES.

HARVEST.

Let us first, ere the mellow corn is stricken to the ground, take a survey from thy venerable heights, old Eston Nab. The sun is just declining westward, behind the golden fringe of clouds which pavilion his setting, and the soft evening airs blow pensively along the heath, amidst whose flowers of blossoming gold, we now rest. Rich is the prospect which extends before us. The river of rivers, so romantic and picturesque, flows gently and reposingly in the distance; the bay, broad and deep, as ever mantled beneath Venice, the "City of the Sea," shines brightly in the red rays of the setting sun. All the glad ships glide peacefully onward o'er their broad pathway of silver and gold, to their distant homes beyond the waves; and the scenery throughout, is simple and beautiful, vast and magnificent, extensive and sublime. Halls and castles, country seats and farm houses, hamlets and villages, with pleasant groves and woods, agreeably interspersed, and here and there a simple church spire or tower, pointing its silent finger to heaven-these constitute a portion of

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that rich and fertile part of Cleveland, stretching from Ormesby to Kirkleatham, called in ordinary phrase, "the Low Sides."

The country is now in the full ripeness and profusion of harvest. Softly the heavy clusters of dark brown wheat, fall lazily to the murmurs of the evening wind, and the noise of the rustling ears is mellow and musical, like the melody of distant wavelets heard from afar. Among such scenes of peacefulness and delight, were the loves of Ayrshire sung to strains of heavenly rapture, -amongst such "corn-rigs" did noble Robert Burns chant his inspired ditties, and from such scenes, alas, too few have our British poets gathered their finest descriptions of nature, truthfulness, and purest beauty. Deeply refreshing to the eye are the autumn fields,the variety of yellow and golden crops, the light, graceful, feathery oats, the rich-tanned or snowy white. wheat, the brown healthy barley, with the various degrees of ripeness, all most pleasing to the eye, and here and there interspersed with dark green turnips, or fruitful pastures, studded with well-fed cattle, chiefly of the Durham breed, and the deep-chested, broadgirthed Cleveland horse, or fat well-lined sheep-practical answers to the fallacy of foreign exportation. These objects combined, are truly exhilarating to the senses, and present a picture more natural and striking than the finest colouring of Poussin, Reubens, and Claude Lorraine.

Nature is indeed her own best painter. Her hues

are so fine and delicate, so perishing and evanescent, so rapid and transitory-ever changing, never the same in their chameleon forms, that the artist, however skilful, is perplexed and overcome by the numerous calls, incessantly made on his fancy and observation. The movements of nature are never constant morning nor evening, even the breath of the noontide breeze, the reflection of the clouds, the tenuity or consistency of the atmosphere, the weakness or strength of the sun's rays—these are a few of the ceaseless agencies, which affect the outward form and appearance of nature!

Such was momentarily the prospect seen but a year ago, about the present season, from the summit of the old war-beacon of Eston Nab, and now depicted from memory, with all the pleasing panorama of Eston, Normanby, Lackenby, Lazenby, Kirkleatham, the hall, the castle of the Vansittarts and Lowthers, omitted in the description, as they do not enter into our object here.

Wanderers we are, wanderers we always have been, and wanderers we hope always shall be,-for thus do men obtain food for observation and knowledge-by such means does memory win its store of pleasing and attractive images-thus doth the mind become emancipated from the narrow bondage of prejudice, soaring in a wide, clear, and untroubled atmosphere of wisdom, toleration, and truth.

But "a change comes o'er the spirit of my dream,”from Eston Nab, we have removed Southward, and we now take our seat on the tall grassy-mounded summit

of Bowsdale, in Hutton-low-cross. Wide is the expanse, pleasant is the prospect. At my feet is a forest of noble oaks; to the left, a silent, secure glen, abounding in hazels-fit retreat for hermit or anchorite. To the left is the ancient park, the Normandy plantations, with many comfortable and handsome farm-houses, abodes of some of our best and most respectable Cleveland Yeomanry, whilst to the right is the fine scenery of Rosebery, the Hanging Stone, Highcliffe, Cass Rock, and the broad moors extending to Freeborough. Far distant, towards Redcar and Marske, is a view of the sea, and the noontide sun illuminates the white sails with his beams.

In the midst of these objects, and stretching its fertile length along, like a vale of Palestine, is the fine alluvial plain, comprising the crown lands, and the estates of the Chaloners. Different now is the prospect which I have before described. The sickle, like a destroying warrior, has already done its duty in most of the neighbouring fields. Like an army of Senacherib, field after field of the bearded inhabitants have fallen before the irresistable foe. The well-grown wheat, late rejoicing in the sun and breeze, fearless alike of wind or shower, proud, as it were, of its wealth and importance, and valiant in its bearing as a host of warriors preparing for an expected victory,-now, the ruthless harvesters have swept over its fertile domain, the sharp steel has pierced its ranks, like a chariot of Boadicea, and fallen and vanquished, the rich army is all ready for

the garnering, and one week more of calm breezes and sunshine will hurry in the harvest wealth to the stackyard,—and then, what cares the honest farmer for rents, tithes, rates, cesses, or Beelzebub himself?

Taken in perspective, from the place where we sit, the scene is indeed truly primitive-almost scriptural. The sheaves ranged regularly in the fields, the harvesters busily and merrily employed, some shearing, some binding, some gleaning-men, women, and children;the view beyond, of ripening crops, still untouched and unscathed, all combine to afford a scene at once poetic, romantic, and practical. Within the shadow of such tall mountains, and amidst this primitive solitude, methinks it was that lovely, lonely Ruth,

-When sick for home,

She stood in tears among the alien corn."

pondered sorrowfully, yet hopefully, over the sad destiny which banished her from the fair vineyards of Bethlehem in Judah.

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Simply beautiful is the scriptural history, and affords a sweet picture of that primitive order of society. readers will be familiar with the original narrative ;—I shall merely quote that portion which illustrates the

text:

"And Naomi had a kinsman of her husband's, a mighty man of wealth, of the family of Ebimelech; and his name was Boas.

"And Ruth, the Moabitess, said unto Naomi, let me now go to the field, and glean ears of corn after him, in