under the tyrant pruning-hook; the soft
green sward; the chequered light and
shade; the wild luxuriant weeds; the lichen
and the moss--all, all are beautiful alike in
the green freshness of spring, or in the
sadness and sere of autumn. Their beauty
is of that kind which makes the heart full
with joy--appealing to the affections with
a power which belongs to nature only.
This wood runs up, from below the base,
to the ridge of a long line of irregular
hills, having perhaps, in primitive times,
formed but the skirting of some mighty
forest which occupied the level below.

But now, alas! whither have we drifted?
whither has the tide of civilisation borne
us? It has passed over a land unprepared
for it--it has left nakedness behind
it; we have lost our forests, but our
marauders remain; we have destroyed
all that is picturesque, while we have
retained everything that is revolting in
barbarism. Through the midst of this
woodland there runs a deep gully or glen,
where the stillness of the scene is broken in
upon by the brawling of a mountain-stream,
which, however, in the winter season,
swells into a rapid and formidable torrent.