Sunset at Beeston. 97 



with hedgerows that in spring are blossom-dappled, and 

 streams, of which, although so distant, we get twinkling 

 glimpses among the leafage. If it be autumn, the scene 

 is chequered with the hues of harvest, every field plainly 

 distinguishable, for one of the peculiar charms of the 

 view from Beeston Castle rock, granting a favourable 

 day, with lucid atmosphere, is that while the country is 

 brimful, every element is well-defined. Later still, we 

 may watch October winding its tinted way through the 

 green summer of the reluctant trees; this, no doubt, it 

 did just in the same sweet old amber-sandalled fashion five 

 centuries ago, but the trees did not then, as now, cast 

 their shadows upon liberty and civilisation. Two periods 

 there are when Beeston calls upon us to remember, with a 

 sigh, that there are forms of beauty in the world in which 

 we may not hope to revel many times, perhaps, in their 

 perfection, not more than once or twice. One is mid- 

 winter, when in the great hush of the virgin snow the 

 landscape becomes a world carved in spotless marble; 

 the other, when the corn is waiting the sickle, and the 

 vast plain is steeped in sunset such as August only 

 witnesses. Watched from this tall rock, the wind- 

 sculptured clouds that an hour before were glistening 

 pearl slowly change to purple mountains, while the 

 molten gold boils up above their brows; these go, and 

 by and by there are left only bars of delicate rose, and 

 veils of fading asphodel, and at last we are with old 

 Homer and the camp before Troy, "when the stars are 

 seen round the bright moon, and the air is breathless, 

 H 



