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who run may read, -although to study it as it ought to be studied, you must certainly sit down on mossy stump, ledge of an old bridge, stone wall, stream bank, or broomy brae, and gaze, and gaze, till woods and sky become like your very self, and your very self like them, at once in. corporated together and spiritualized. After a few years' such lessons—you may become a planter—and under your hands not only shall the desert blossom like the rose, but murmur like the palm, and if " southward through Eden goes a river large,” and your name be Adam, what a sceptic not to believe yourself the first of men, your wife the sairest of her daughters Eve, and your policy Paradise !

Unless you look and listen, and lay to heart what you see and hear, you will make a pretty pickle of planting. Huge wagons come hulking along the cross-roads piled up with all sorts of young trees swathed in mats, and you and your Grieve and his men cannot rest till they are all stuck into the soil-higgledy, piggledy, promisky, and on the principle of liberty and equality-each plant being allowed the same want of elbow-room, and the same chance-no choice—of dry or moisture. Here a great awkward overgrown hobbledehoy of a poplar, who keeps perpetually turning up the whites of his leaves at every breath that blows, stands shivering like an aspen cheek by jowl with a squat, sturdy, short-necked, bandy-legged pech of a Scotch fir, as dour, as the devil in a squall, though, unlike that gentleman, unable to stand hot weather, and looking in a brown study, indeed during the dog-days. Here, again, the greenest of all saughs, brightening with the love of life, in a small marsh,-for the saugh loves wet like the whaup,--by the side of the yellowest of all larches, pining and dwindling in the fear of death, shooting six inches on an average every year, but which is the top-shoot no man can tell, and eaten alive by insects. There, seven as pretty young oaks as you may see on a spring or summer's morning committing fratricide for possession of that knoll! Now that yonder ash has, after a sore tussle, got these two elms down, you may depend upon it he will not let them up again in a hurry; or if he does, why that sycamore will settle him for such stupidity, having the advantage of the ground, and being his superior in height, weight, and length, and at least bis equal in science. And then is there not something exceedingly pretty in the variegation of such patchwork policy? Pretty as any coverlet to any old woman's bed in all the parish ? No great, huge, black, sullen, sulky masses of shade-no broad bright bursts of sunshine, enough to drive a man mad with sudden mirth or melancholy, as he wanders among the woods--but every tree standing by itself, with an enormous organ of individuality, so that you cannot help trying to count them, yet never get beyond a score, being put out of your reckoning by an unexpected poplar standing with his back against a rock, in vain combat with a sharp-nailed silver fir, scratching his very eyes out-a beech bathing in a puddle of moss-water-or something in the shape of an ornamental shrub, struggling in the manyfingered grasp of the strangulating heather, like a Cockney entangled among the Scottish thistles of Blackwood's Magazine.

Then what a pest are your prigs of professional planters! They walk with such an air about your rural premises, as if you had not a single eye in your head, and did not know a frowning ash from a weeping birch, a bour-tree from a gooseberry bush, whins from broom, or rasps from rowans. If there be a barn or byre on the estate, they begin with planting it out as if it were a poors' house, or an infirmary, or a tanyard, or perhaps pulling it down; in which case, what becomes of the corn and the cows?

“Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,

You dearly lo'e the west;
For there the bonny lassie lives,

The lass that you lo'e best.” And with many a beautiful sunset has your soul sunk away behind the gorgeous weather-gleam, into her fair and far-off bosom. The monster plants it out, too, and be hanged to him, with a spindle-shanked grove, that will continue to wear a truly transplanted and haggard appearance to the day of judgment.

- Having thus, day after day, planted out all “ old familiar faces,” nothing will satisfy him but to open up; and down go temples and towers that never can be rebuilt trees old as sin, stately as Satan, beautiful as virtue, and reverend as religion. The river, robbed of all the magnifi. cence with which imagination blackened and whitened it, as it moved unseen through the woods—unseen, but in one bright bend here—one sullen stretch there—one deadened cataract, steaming and gleaming yonder through its oak-canopy, now rolls on disenchanted through the light of common day; and you may see ladies, and ladies' maids, with green parasols, hunting butterflies all by themselves, or flirting with dragoon officers, and undergraduates from Oxford. That mile-long elm avenue-a cathedral in which a hundred thousand penitentials might have prayed-is swept away in the reformation, and you now approach the modern mansion, (for the old hall is down or deserted,) circuitously, after the fashion of one of the representatives of the people making a speech in parliament, who prefers taking two hours to reach a con. clusion åt which he might have arrived by driving on straight forward, in about five minutes and a half, going at the accelerated but not unreasonable rate of eight miles an hour. Perhaps an old kirk, or church be it—the very parish one-is found to be too near the house; for, though faint, and far off, still when the atmosphere is clear, and the wind west, you can hear the voice of psalms; and therefore that the silence of Sabbath may not be rudely disturbed, the kirk or church, with spire or tower, is swept away, and its burial-ground, so inoffensive with its " low memorials still erected nigh,” shut up—but nothat may not be—for the poor parishioners will insist on laying their bones beside those of their forefathers; and surely a few funerals in the year-say a score at the most-need not spoil the rich man's appetite for dinnerif appetite he otherwise would have had; nor may the holy bell that used to toll to prayer now be heard with its little cracked tinkling, so much louder is the gong that summons to lunch or tiffin, and sets the funkies afloat through all the staircases from parlour to pantry, from Moll, the peony-rose of the kitchen, to Louisa, the white lily of the drawing-room, languishing and luxury being alike the order of the day, from cellar to garret; for in high life, both above and below stairs,

“Love is heaven, and heaven is love."

Let all people, then, beware of dealers in the picturesque; for they are universally greedy, and generally ignorant, and may do more harm in a week than nature can repair in a year. Get some painter of genius, like Andrew Wilson, or William Allan, or John Watson Gordon, or Hugh Williams, or Alexander Nasmyth, or Mr. Thomson of Duddingstone, to come sauntering out with his portfolio, and take up his abode for a few days in your friendly house, strolling about with you during the forenoons among the banks and braes, and beautifying the paper during the evenings with fair creations of taste and fancy, prophetic of the future beauties and glories that shall ere long be overshadowing your estate. They will not scare the naiads, the dryads, and the hamadryads, from their old haunted nooks—the fairies will not fly their approach, any more than the rooks and herons-in every pool and tarn, nature will behold herself not only in undiminished but in heightened charms—Flora will walk hand in hand with Pomona, and the two together will smile sweetly on old Father Pan, roaming in all his original hairiness in the forests. And haply you may have among your friends some poet

" Who murmurs near the hidden brooks

A music sweeter than their own;" Him you may consult, at close of his noontide revery, and from his sown words will spring up all varieties of grace, loveliness, and majesty, till every woodland mur. mur breathes of poetry, and poetry brightens from the heaven of every tree-and-cloud-shadowed water, asleep within the silence of the solitary woods.

Of the multitude of thoughts within us, we know not one more cheering than the belief, that the world is, and ever must be, in a state of very great ignorance about all those things that are of most avail to human use or pleasure. There is a perpetual flux and reflux-ebb and flow of all things on the face of this our pleasant earth. Look up to the hill-side, and you see the waterline of beauty, parallel to that on the opposite green range, telling that long ago a loch filled the valley, till it burst the mound that confined it, and away it flowed on, in a riyer, to the sea. Look on those ruins, apparently of houses-inland now, it may be said-yet shells are to be gathered still round the garden wall, touched in the olden time by the foot of the flowing Neptune. Or look into that lucid bay, and you will see the roofs and chimney-tops of what once were cottagescottages that stood at night on the shore, twinkling like stars; while on the silvery sands between them and the sea the fishermen dried their nets. All this is at once melancholy and consoling, to be thought of alternately with a smile and a tear. Then for the march of intellect, it is fortunately often retrograde; for, if it were not, intellect would march on to the utmost possible length of its tetherbreak the tether-and fall over "the back of beyond.” But intellect has more sense; and, therefore, may be often seen suddenly ordering the whole army to halt, light and heavy brigades alike, going into winter quarters, -encamping on the spot, or perhaps falling back upon the wagons and commissariat. Thus it is impossible that the grand campaign can ever come to an end till the stars slacken in their courses, and the sun is kicked out of that solar system of his, where he is seen outshining like a visible god, the path on which he trode,”—kicked out of his own solar system, just like a football.

Thus, to return to trees. Trees have been planted for these six thousand years and upwards, and yet were some forester who planted, long before the Christian era, the palm-trees by the wells of Palestine-or the cedars from Lebanon along the banks of the brook Kedron-to open his eyes to a perusal of Monteath's Forest Guide, we do not believe that the good old Jew would think the Galwegian a whit wiser than himself-or that he would even think Sir Walter had worked a miracle in that famous article of his on Planting, No. 72, of that thriving journal the Quarterly Review. Though we think we could point out a few rather important mistakes in the moral wisdom of Solomon, yet we perfectly agree with him in his apo. thegm, “ that there is nothing new under the sun.” That Solomon knew both the theory and practice of transplanting old trees, we are not without good reason for believing; though, at the same time, could we suppose him, by a bold anachronism, to have visited Allanton along with the

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