MUSINGS OK AN OLD TREE. 11 



is one of the most unphilosophical capers a man can be guilty of.) This 

 operation is regarded by some as producing an electrical cflbct on the 

 tree, inasmuch as the operator communicates to it his own superfluous 

 electricity. It is well known that the electric fluid mechanically applied 

 to the vegetation of any root, promotes its growth amazingly. 



Dendrophilgs. 



• THE MUSINGS OP AN OLD TREE. 



According to Esop, in olden times men were not the only creatures 

 gifted with speech. Besides the authority of Fable I have had the tes- 

 timony of a Dream to convince me that Trees can talk and think. — 

 Some years ago, I was tempted by the beauties and glories of a fine 

 Spring morning to extend my daily walk too far — I became fatigued, 

 and sat down to rest. My seat was a large rock against the fence. Just 

 in front of me, not twenty feet distant, was a magnificent elm tree, ven- 

 erable in its appearance, and full of foliage. It was the only tree near. 

 I listened to the rustling of the leaves, all else was still as the grave. — 

 There seemed to be a secret magnetism produced by the music of the 

 wind and leaf which penetrated my soul, and wrought a spell for my 

 senses. The rustling became regular, melodious, and soothing ; still I 

 listened — it seemed to sweep through every note of the scale — from the 

 rich melody of the harp, to the plaintive sweetness of the dove — from 

 the pure thrilling of the nightingale, to the bold language of man. Yes, 

 there was language in the rustling of the leaves — the tree did talk, and 

 thus it mused : 



"Can it be! Can it be! It is just two hundred years since I first 

 saw that sun •, he was bright and beautiful then as now — all else how 

 changed. It is just two hundred years since I first saw the glorious fir- 

 mament above me ; it is, too, the same, unchangeable, eternal. Every 

 thing else has changed. The dews of two hundred Summers have set- 

 tled upon me ; the tints of two hundred Autumns have painted me ; the 

 frosts of two hundred Winters have chained me ; and the meltings of 

 two hundred Springs have released me. My history is peculiar. I have 

 watched for centuries the vicissitudes of men — the building up and the 

 crumbling down of man's works, and the growth and decay of Nature. 

 I remember when only the wild beast and the red man roamed in soli- 

 tude and the forest around me. The wild beast has gone. The red 

 man has been robbed and murdered; the forest has dwindled away be- 

 fore the resistless energy of civilization, and solitude has been succeeded 

 by the noisy hum of business, and I am left alone. I have seen genera- 



