MORNING CALLS.

MORNING CALLS, the hatred and annoyance of all persons who know the value of time, formed at S――, the staple business of life. After this it is quite unnecessary to say that S- was a small country town, abounding with genteel idle people,-who, having limited incomes, and few occupations, and much leisure, and little mind, mainly occupied themselves in hearing and retailing news. By many people, S-, was considered a charming residence; in the country sense of the term it contained so much good society,'-and this good society was so very sociable: in other words every body drank tea with every body, and every body knew every body's business. As far as news was concerned they had all things in common; scandal was certainly communicated from mouth to mouth under the charge of secrecy, but that, as all the world knows, is equivalent to proclaming it by sound. of trumpet; so that such a thing as a secret was perfectly unknown in S. Surprise was next to impossible, for all events, no matter of what kind, public or private, petty or important, were known beforehand; sudden death was the only circumstance ever known to baffle these omniscient people. It was quite a straight forward proceeding to report births and marriages before their occurrence; but sudden death was an awkward subject to meddle with; it was not to be foreseen even by those who foresaw all things. The town of S, was like a bee-hive always in a buzz,—of hints, wonderments, suspicions, doubts, hopes, fears, and conjectures, it was a vast whispering-gallery; one large ear; but this last figure rather fails in similarity, as the self-same whisper often found a hundred different echoes. The surmise at one end of the town that a lady and gentleman were attached, grew to a suspicion in the middle, that they were engaged; from which started a full-grown report at the other end, that the wedding clothes were in hand. Disasters went through the same exaggerating process. A piece of news past through as many changes as a chrysalis; a simple fact in the hands of these philosophic newsmongers became the germ of a hundred. Life at S- was a round-robin monotony of putting on the same dresses, seeing the same people, taking the same walks, playing at cards with the same partners, dancing to the same tunes, and coming away at the same hour, over and over again, from the beginning of one year to the end of another. Hence, arose craving for excitement in the only attainable shape, that of news; out of which originated a talent for gossip, and a passion for morning calls.

There was no newspaper printed at S; there needed none; nor any voice of print. An unfortunate genius did venture to set up a General Advertiser; but at the end of three months, he abandoned minion and brevier in desperation; he could procure no news; it

NO, XXXV.-VOL. III.

was all picked up and disseminated through the indefatigable agency of Morning Callers; every scrap of local intelligence' was old by the day of publication. What was far worse, the advertising department was a sinecure for governesses, mistresses, schools, servants, and apprentices all preferred these walking advertisements, which were found to answer far better, and were besides duty free.'

At the head of these systematic time destroyers stood Mrs. Sharpley, and her three daughters, Julia, Caroline, and Anne. She, as a widow, considered herself absolved from the apostolic injunction to be a keeper at home,' and they, as young ladies, considered themselves absolved likewise, on the plea that as yet they had no home (of their own) to keep. Life was to this family a series of visits and visitations, of opening and shutting doors, how-do-ye-dos, and good-byes; they lived in their bonnets, and their walking shoes, like the feet of Noah's dove, found no rest for their soles. The old lady was a portly, comfortable, coarse-minded, worldly, but in the main kind-hearted, woman; immensely popular; for she had a fluent speech, and during her round of morning calls, dropped a smile, or a tear, or compliment, or hope, or consolation, at every step of her progress. The young ladies were chatty, prettylooking, pleasure-loving, little-reading, less-thinking, damsels; unrivalled in what are called the elegant arts of female industry; the manufacture of riddles and conundrums in blue ink; new-fashioned watch-pockets, pen-wipers, fly-cages, fire-grate papers, egg-baskets, card-purses, bead bracelets, and tatting. They were prudent, sensible, young women; their mother on a reduced scale;-lovers of shopping for its own sake; geniuses at Pope Joan and Commerce, and ever on the look-out for new patterns, whereby to regenerate old garments. Nothing could equal the sensation occasioned by the appearance of a stranger in S. The visiting part of the community were not exactly in arms on the occasion; but as soon as possible they were one and all on foot; and in a series of morning calls, the affairs, dress, fortune, character, and future destiny of the unfortunate he, or she, were as confidently reported upon as if an old inhabitant of the town. Two strangers, strangers too somewhat out of the common way, had just arrived on a visit, but three days of rain had prevented the possibility of their making calls; the fourth morning, however, graciously dawned in smiles; and thus spoke Mrs. Sharpley at the close of breakfast: Well, really, girls, this fine day rejoices one's heart, so make haste and send the things away, that we may make the best of it. Let me see, just nine o'clock now; say we are ready to set off by eleven, and dine an hour later than usual, how many calls can we get through? but first reach me the almanack, and let me see how many we owe; mercy upon us, how these wet days have thrown us behind-hand.'

U

The almanack was reached from its stand, and the old lady proceeded to tell over the cards with appropriate notes and comments.

Mrs. Lorraine Finch-Certainly; it is our duty to call upon the strangers in the first place; I wish one could have got a little of Sir John's history before one went: I wonder whether he likes dancing. Julia, be sure and practise over your quadrilles to-night. And now I think of it, pray, Anne, my dear, did I ever give Mrs. Finch the receipt for Scotch marmalade, which her poor old aunt asked me for?'

No, indeed,' replied the young lady addressed, for you said you should not make it common to any such person

Mrs. Sharpley was seized with a coughing-fit towards the close of her daughter's reply, but recovering herself, she thus proceeded: Dear me, what a shameful piece of forgetfulness! Anne, love, sit down, and copy it out directly; take gilt-edge paper, child, not that back of an old letter, and get a new pen. wonder whether Mrs. Finch will have many parties while Sir John and his sister are with her.'

I

Mrs. Finch knows more of the world than any one in S-,' said Julia. And dresses better, and her rooms are more tastefully ornamented,' said Caroline. And her suppers are more elegant,' observed Anne. And she has far better connexions,' said the mother. Verdict.-Mrs. Lorraine Finch is more worthy of attention than her neighbours.

་

'Mother,' said Caroline, ' we owe a call to those tiresome old frumps the Oddleys; always begging one's patterns, and inviting one to tea in a friendly way. I hate friendly ways.'

་

Hush, hush, my dear,' replied her mother, with a cautionary nod, a little civility is well bestowed upon people who go every where, and who have nothing to do but to talk about their neighbours; besides I really like the Oddleys-poor souls-one of you find last week's newspaper for them. And Caroline, you might as well give Miss Letty the pattern of a morning-cap; take her that I desired you never to wear again. Well, who else have we to see; the Jones', the Walkers, the Waleys what people those are-call, call, call, the instant one is out of their debt; just as if one had nothing to do but be at home to them. How long is it since we were at a party there?'—' Indeed, mother, I don't know,' replied Julia, but I am sure we always invite them twice for once.'

.

་

Fie, fie, Julia,' rejoined the mother, you should not mention such trifles: however, I don't think we shall have time to call this morning. Mrs. Morris, she is a spiteful creature; but I must see her, for I want to know where her dyer lives. Mrs. Charles Merton, poor woman, what a life she leads with those nine children." Really, mother,' interrupted Anne, it is of no use wasting time with Mrs. Merton; one never meets her any where, and she knows nothing out of her own house; and she is always busy.' much the greater charity to look in upon her now and then; besides, I think her housemaid is under warning, and I should like to know a little of her character in a

• So

quiet way before I see after her. Well, really, I think we shall manage no more calls this morning; we must do the rest to-morrow. I must somehow peep in at Mrs. Taffety's, to see if she has any thing new in the turban way; and if Mrs. Finch is likely to have any

gay doings, you girls may as well have your new frocks made now, as at Christmas; now then, dress yourselves directly; your black velvet spencers, and best flounced petticoats; nothing is so becoming as to see sisters all dressed alike. Julia, love, keep your veil down at Mrs. Finche's. Anne, don't forget to offer to show Miss Dashford all the pleasant walks about S, really, I quite feel for poor Mrs. Finch, no young people of her own to amuse her strangers; we must relieve her as much as we can.

Availing myself of the stage privilege, I beg the reader to consider the black line drawn above, equivalent to a drop-scene; and then, without further prelimi, I shall open this second act, and introduce my performers sitting in Mrs. Finch's library; in company with that lady, Sir John Dashford and his sister, in the fine full flow of morning-call talk; the matrons apart from the young people, and Mrs. Sharpley play. ing diplomatic. My dear Mrs. Finch, I do assure you that this receipt has quite weighed upon my conscience, and I have said to my girls at least a dozen times, do one of you copy out that receipt for Scotch marmalade for Mrs. Finch's aunt-what a delightful old lady she is so chatty and cheerful. Do tell her, Mrs Finch, that she must come amongst us this winter; there is nothing so good for an old person as a social rubber; what a charming acquisition you have made to our S society; but, indeed, as I say to our girls, whenever you make an increase, it always is an acquisition. What a lovely young woman Miss Dashford is, and how exceedingly like her brother.'

And he,' interrupted Mrs. Finch, is, (I say it in confidence), the mildest, most easy-tempered creature in the world; you may do any thing with him; his own master, and full three thousand a year, I assure you Mrs. Sharpley.'

'I hope we may be able to make S― pleasant to him,' replied that lady earnestly. Now, my dear Mrs. Finch, I do beg and entreat that you will not stand upon ceremony with us; your time will be occupied, and we know young people like young people; let my daughters lionize Miss Dashford and her brother when you are engaged; we must plan some rural excursions-what a pity it is not winter; but we must do the best we can.' Meantime, out of compliment to the distinguished strangers, the Miss Sharpley's had discoursed in a manner very superior to the general wont of morning-call conversation at S- ; servants, wedding reports, vulgar topics of every kind were banished; but we will give the reader a specimen. They discovered then, that there were many pleasant walks in the neighbourhood; that riding was a very agreeable exercise; that green was likely to be a very fashionable colour; that Ivanhoe was in a quite different style from Waverley: that S- was very

dull in summer; that in winter it is much gayer; that quadrilles were far more elegant than country-dances; that it must be very delightful to travel abroad; that the book society was not well supported in S-; that they hoped to see much of the strangers during their visit, &c. &c.

Conversation rippled on in this style for about an hour; at the end of which time the morning callers departed, and proceeded to the Oddleys, who were all at home, and in more than readiness to receive infor

mation on all subjects. A glance at the sitting-room would alone have sufficed to convince a stranger as to the character and customs of its inhabitants. It was three-cornered, and full of three-cornered things. The table was octagonal, the flower-stands triangular, the escruitoire carved, the carpet of a zigzag pattern, and the fire-place set round with Dutch tiles. The ornaments were, a superannuated parrot, and a stuffed owl, an asthmatic poodle, and a tortoise-shell tabby, fat as a porpoise, and grave as a judge; two embroidered angels hanging over the chimney-piece; and two china. hay makers, two ditto sheperdesses, ditto of porcelain candlesticks, ditto of sea-shells, and ditto of glass bellows upon the mantel-shelf. Who would not have known this to be the tenement of old maids! Such in truth were the three Miss Oddleys; but they did honour to the species; simple-hearted, straight-forward, worthy women; prone, as Miss Caroline said, to beg patterns, and invite to tea in a friendly way; but thoroughly good-natured; good-natured even in their gossip; no spiteful version of a fact ever originated with the Miss Oddleys; and if their heads resembled their sitting-room in being ornamented with lumber, their hearts did not, for they contained nothing threecornered. This has been a long digression from the main subject; but if one exhibits the worse parts of human nature, it is but common justice to pourtray its worthier.

Well, ladies,' commenced their matron visitor, 'here I am, with all my tribe-no leaving them behind when we are to call on Miss Oddleys-Well, and how have you been this age since I saw you? I said to Anne or Julia, I don't know which, as we were dressing, my dear, said I, we will go and call on the Miss Oddleys this morning, come what will; and here we are, and here you are, snug and comfortable as ever. Ah, as I often say to my girls, Miss Oddleys'life for happiness. By the way we have brought you a newspaper, and the pattern of a morning-cap Miss Letty, which, take my word for it, will become you amazingly. We are on our way to the fashions; I suppose you don't countenance such vanities; Miss Esther?"

But

'My pocket does not,' replied the spinster, with a good-humoured smile, but we always see them nevertheless; we contrive to want a yard or two of ribbon, or a bit of persian, when Mrs. Taffety exhibits. have you seen our strangers? Certainly the Finches must be doing uncommonly well. I prophesy Sir John will loose his heart whilst he is here; young ladies, mark my words, But what do you think of him, my dears?' The young ladies smiled, and bridled, and declared they really had not formed any opinion on the subject; and from the very transient notice they had taken of him, Sir John appeared a rather pleasant, somewhat good-looking young man; then, to make amends for their decorous reserve as to the brother, one and all were rapturous in their encomiums on the sister.

But to proceed in this elaborate question-and-answer manner, will protract out morning calls till doomsday; we shall venture therefore to make a multum in parvo of all the useful and interesting information received and imparted during this present sitting of the Gossips' Parliament.

That four parties only were in projection throughout S- ; that parties were not half so pleasant in

NO. XXXV.-VOL, III,

summer as in winter; that people's dresses never ap peared half so nice; that Mrs. Jones's governess was about to leave; that it was suspected she was going to marry the eldest son; that the match between Emma Leicester and her cousin was broken off; that it was not supposed there was any fault on either side; that poor Mrs. Merton had had the tooth-ache a whole week; that the new curate played the best rubber of any gentleman in the place, and preached moreover most excellent sermons; that it was a great comfort to have a good clergyman; that Doctor Dawdle had been called out of church the last Sunday, that Mr. Clare had increased his business; that Mrs. Thompson was likely to increase her family; that the Waleys were just gone into mourning; that the Morris's were just gone out; that mourning was very disagreeable in summer; that it was very convenient when it so happened that people could put it on in winter, &c., &c.

This is but a brief abstract of what transpired; at the end of an hour Mrs. Sharpley and her daughters rose, for time was precious to them. They felt that news like knowledge was not to be hoarded; and if like Dr. Watts's busy bee

They gathered honey all the day From every opening flower, they were, to do them justice, neither idle nor selfish recipients; like the same busy bee that stored it up for the use and pleasure of others; what they gathered in one place they deposited elsewhere in a new and improved form.

Mrs. Morris's was the next point for which our party made: and having there unloaded the cargo of intelligence taken in at the Oddleys, they proceeded to take in fresh supplies of such articles as Mrs. M. could furnish; which, most unfortunately, consisted chiefly of contradictions. From her then they learnt, that Sir John Dashford had only two thousand a year; -that the Finches were exceedingly censured for keeping so much company, (Mrs. Morris had not been included in their last party); that Mr. Clare was likely to be gazetteed soon;-that the new curate did not preach his own sermons ;-that the Waleys were going into black, not into mourning;—that there were very unpleasant reports abroad concerning young Jones;-that servants were the ninety-nine plagues of Babylon ;-that five ladies wanted cooks, and as many house maids;-—that Mrs. Waley's new gown was a dyed one; that Emma Leicester was not likely to forget her disappointment, &c., &c. In addition to all this important intelligence, our morning callers. further increased their stock of useful knowledge by one or two culinary details and managing discoveries, which we purpose to impart to Dr. Kitchener, for the benefit of his new edition of the Cook's Oracle,' and the Footman's Directory.' How shameful that there should be so many contradictory reports about the same thing,' said Mrs. Sharpley as she left Mrs. Morris's, but as we have many places yet to call at, I dare say we shall get at the truth by and bye.'

In this hope she proceeded with her daughters to the Jones', the Walkers, the Waleys, and the Mertons. At all these places excepting the last, (poor Mrs. Merton, as usual, knew nothing), the same peal of subjects was rung, and at each with changes. Poor Sir John's two thousand a year dwindled down to five hundred; his other good qualities were plucked from him in like manner; and his overthrow was crowned ▼ 2

by the certain intelligence from unquestionable authority', (there never yet was a piece of scandal that did not plead unquestionable authority'), that he was on the point of marriage! At each reduction of his income Mrs. Sharpley's eulogies waxed fainter and fainter, and at the last piece of intelligence she determined in her own mind to forego her new turban and let the girls wait till Christmas for their new frocks.

How the matter ended we cannot at present explain; all we dare venture to declare, is, that our morning callers returned home weary with walking, perplexed with contradictions, comforted only by reflecting how much business they had got through in one morning. M. J. J.

THE COVENANTERS.

NEVER; I will not know another home

Ten summers have passed on, with their blue skies,
Green leaves, and singing birds, and sun-kiss'd fruit,
Since here I first took up my last abode,-
And here my bones shall rest. You say it is
A home for beasts, and not for humankind,
This bleak shed and bare rock, and that the vale
Below is beautiful. I know the time
When it looked very beautiful to me!

Do you see that bare spot, where one old oak
Stands black and leafless, as if scorched by fire,
While round it the ground seems as if a curse
Were laid upon the soil? Once by that tree,
Then covered with its leaves and acorn crop,
A little cottage stood: 'twas very small,
But had an air of health and peace. The roof
Was every morning vocal with the song
Of the rejoicing swallows, whose warm nest
Was built in safety underneath the thatch;
A honeysuckle on the sunny side

Hung round the lattices its fragrant trumpets.
Around was a small garden: fruit and herbs
Were there in comely plenty; and some flowers,
Heath from the mountains, and the wilding bush
Gemm'd with red roses, and white apple blossoms,
Were food for the two hives, whence all day long
There came a music like the pleasant sound

Of lulling waters. And at eventide

It was a goodly sight to see around
Bright eyes, and faces lighted up with health

And youth and happiness: these were my children,
That cottage was mine home.-

There came a shadow o'er the land, and men Were hunted by their fellow men like beasts, And the sweet feelings of humanity Were utterly forgotten; the white head Darkened with blood and dust, was often laid Upon the murdered infant, for the sword Of pride and cruelty was sent to slay Those who in age would not forego the faith They had grown up in. I was one of these: How could I close the Bible I had read Beside my dying mother, which had given To me and mine such comfort? But the hand Of the oppressor smote us. There were shrieks, And naked swords, and faces dark as guilt, A rush of feet, a bursting forth of flame, Curses, and crashing boards, and infant words Praying for mercy, and then childish screams Of fear and pain. There were these the last night The white walls of my cottage stood; they bound And flung me down beside the oak, to watch How the red fire gathered, like that of heli. There sprang one to the lattice, and leant forth, Gasping for fresh air,-my own fair girl! My only one! The vision haunts me still: The white arms raised to heaven, and the long hair, Bright as the light beside it, stiff on the head Upright, from terror. In the accursed glare We knew each other; and I heard a cry, Half tenderness, half agony,-a crash,——

The roof fell in,-I saw my child no more!
A cloud closed round me, a deep thunder-cloud,
Half darkness and half fire. At length sense came
With a remembering like that which a dream
Leaves, of vague horrors; but the heavy chain,
The loathsome straw which was my only bed,
The sickly light through the dim bars, the damp,
The silence, were realities; and then
I lay on the cold stones and wept aloud,
And prayed the fever to return again
And bring death with it. Yet did I escape,-
Again I drank the fresh air of heaven,

And felt the sunshine laugh upon my brow;

I thought then I would seek my desolate home,
And die where it had been. I reached the place:
The ground was bare and scorched, and in the midst
Was a black heap of ashes. Franticly

I groped amid them, ever and anon
Meeting some human fragment, skulls and bones
Shapeless and cinders, till I drew a curl,
A long and beautiful carl of sunny hair,
Stainless and golden, as but then just severed,
A love-gift from the head, I knew the hair-
It was my daughter's! there I stood, and howled
Curses upon that night. There came a voice,
There came a gentle step;-even on that heap
Of blood and ashes did I kneel, and pour
To the great God my gratitude! That curl
Was wet with tears of happiness; that step,
That voice, were sweet familiar ones,-one child,
My eldest son, was sent me from the grave!
That night he had escaped.-

We left the desolate valley, and we went
Together to the mountains and the woods,
And there inhabited in love and peace,
Till a strong spirit came upon men's hearts,
And roused them to avenge their many wrongs.
Yet stood they not in battle, and the arm
Of the oppressor was at first too nighty.
Albeit I have lived to see their bonds
Rent like burnt flax, yet much of blood was spilt,
Or ever the deliverance was accomplished.
We fled in the dark night. At length the moon
Rose on the midnight,-when I saw the face
Of my last child was ghastly white, and set
In the death agony, and from his side
The life-blood came like tears; and then I prayed
That he would rest, and let me stanch the wound.
He motioned me to fly, and then lay down
Upon the rock, and died! This is his grave,
His home and mine. Ask ye now why I dwell
Upon the rock, and loathe the vale beneath?

WOODS.

The glory of this month (October), however, is the gorgeous splendour of wood-scenery. Woods have in all ages vividly impressed the human mind; they possess a majesty and sublimity which strike and charın the eye. Their silence and obscurity affect the imagi nation with a meditative awe. They soothe the spirit by their grateful seclusion, and delight it by glimpses of their wild inhabitants, by their novel cries, and by odours and beautiful phenomena peculiar to themselves. This may be more particularly applied to our own woods, woods comparatively reclaimed, but in less populous and cultivated countries they possess a far more wild and gloomy character. The abodes of banditti, of wild beasts and deadly reptiles, they truly merit the epithet of "salvage woods," which Spencer has bestowed upon them. In remote ages their fearful solitudes and everbrooding shadows fostered superstition and peopled them with satyrs, fauns, dryads, hamadryads, and innumerable spirits of dubious natures. The same cause consecrated them to religious rites;

it was from the mighty and ancient oak of Donora that the earliest oracles of Greece were pronounced. The Syrians had their groves dedicated to Baal, and Ashtaroth the queen of Heaven, and affectd the Israelites with their idolatrous customs. In the heart of woods the Druid cut down the bough of misletoe, and performed the horrible ceremonies of his religion. The philosophers of Greece resorted to groves, as schools the most august and befitting the delivery of their sublime precepts. In the depths of woods did anchorites seek to forget the world, and to prepare their hearts for the purity of heaven. To lovers and poets they have ever been favourite haunts; and the poets by making them the scenes and subjects of their most beautiful fictions and descriptions, have added to their native charms a thousand delightful associations. Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, Shakspeare, and Milton, have sanctified them to the hearts of all generations. What a world of magnificent creatures comes swarming upon the memory as we wander in the woods! The gallant knights and beautiful dames, the magical castles and hippogriffs of the Orlando; the enchanted forest, the Armida and Erminia of the Gerusalemma Liberata; "Fair Una with her milk-white lamb," and all the satyrs, Archimages, the fair Florimels and false Duessas of the Faery Queene; Ariel and Caliban, Jaques and his motley fool in Arden, the fairies of the Midsummer-Night's Dream, Oberon, Titania, and that pleasantest of all mischief-makers, ineffable Puck,—the noble spirits of the immortal Comus. With such company, woods are to us any thing but solitudes-they are populous and inexhaustible worlds, where creatures that mock the grasp but not the mind, a matchless phantasmagoria, flit before us; alternately make us merry with their pleasant follies, delight us with their romantic grandeur and beauty, and elevate our hearts with their sublime sentiments. What wisdom do we learn in the world that they do not teach us better? What music do we hear like that which bursts from the pipes of the universal Pan, or comes from some viewless source with Eolian melodies of Faery-land? Whatever woods have been to all ages, to all descriptions of superior mind, to all the sages and poets of the past world, they are to us. We have the varied whole of their sentiments, feelings and fancies, bequeathed as an immortal legacy, and combined and concentrated for our gratification and advantage; besides the innumerable pleasures which modern art has thrown to the accumulated wealth of all antiquity. Botany has introduced us to a more intimate acquaintance with the names and characters, and with something also of the physical economy of both "the trees of the wood" and of the smallest plants which flourish at their feet; so that wherever we cast our eyes, we behold matter for both admiration and research.

What can be more beautiful than trees? their lofty trunks, august in their simplicity, asserting to the most inexperienced eye, their infinite superiority over the imitative pillars of man's pride; their graceful play of wide-spreading branches; and all the delicate and glorious machinery of buds, leaves, flowers and fruit, that with more than magical effect burst forth from naked and rigid twigs, with all the rich and brilliant, and unimaginably varied colours under heaven; breathing delectable odours, pure, and fresh, and animating; pouring out spices and medicinal essences; and making

music, from the softest and the most melancholy under. tones to the full organ-peal of the tempest. I wonder not that trees have commanded the admiration of men in all nations and periods of the world. What is the richest country without trees? What barren and monotonous spot can they not convert into a paradise? Xerxes in the midst of his most ambitious enterprise, stopped his vast army to contemplate the beauty of a tree. Cicero from the throng, and exertion, and anxiety of the forum, was accustomed, Pliney tells us, to steal forth to a grove of palm-trees, to refresh and invigorate his spirit. In the Scaplan Groves, the same author adds, Thucydides was supposed to have composed his noble histories. The Greek and Roman classics, indeed, abound with expressions of admiration of trees and woods, and with customs which have originated in that admiration; but above all, as the Bible surpasses, in the splendour and majesty of its poetry, all books in the world, so is its sylvan and aborescent imagery the most bold and beautiful. Beneath some spreading tree are the ancient patriarchs revealed to us sitting in contemplation, or receiving the visits of the angels; and what a calm and dignified picture of primeval life is presented to our imagination, at the mention of Deborah, the wife of Lapidoth, judging the twelve tribes of Israel, between Ramah and Bethel, in Mount Ephraim, beneath the palm-tree of Deborah. The oaks of Bashan, and the cedars of Lebanon, are but other and better names for glory and power. The vine, the olive, and the fig-tree are made imperishable symbols of peace, plenty, and festivity. David in his psalms, Solomon in his songs and proverbs, the Prophets in the sublime outpourings of their awful inspirations, and Christ in his parables, those most beautiful and perfect of all allegorics, luxuriate in signs and similes drawn from the fair trees of the East.

In the earlier ages of Europe, Kings were crowned, councils were held, and justice dispensed beneath the shade of some noble trees. From the shadow of an oak was Christianity first proclaimed in these realms; in a more recent day of our dear and noble country, the willows of Pope and Johnson, the mulberry of Shak speare, aud that of Milton have associated those great names with the love of planting. Many noble works of our illustrious countrymen it would be easy to mention, that have been written, and more than one of our most distinguished living authors, who delights to compose amid the inspiring grace and freshness and purity of trees. John Evelyn spent a considerable portion of a valuable life in endeavouring to communicate his admiration of trees and forests, and besides immediately effecting a great national servvice, by turning the attention of Government to the importance of planting, has left a fine monument of his taste and labour. Well might this venerable and enthusiastic apostle of woods exclaim: "Here then is the true Parnassus, Castilia and the Muses;" and at every call in a grove of venerable oaks, methinks I hear the answer of a hundred old Druids, and the bards of our inspired ancestors. In a word, so charmed were the poets with those natural shades, that they honoured temples with the names of groves, though they had not a tree about them. In walks and shades of trees poets have composed verses, which have animated men to glorious actions. Here orators have made their panegyrics, historians their grave relations; and the profound philoso