THE AGE OF THE CEDAR TREE 151 



Before it has accomplished a century, or a century 

 and a half of existence, a Dies Irce in the shape of 

 snow-storms often overtakes its chances of attaining 

 any fame in the annals of a blasted antiquity. Under 

 an inflicted weight of such a visitation rather than 

 under any disabling weight of age, its boughs and 

 branches, with a prelude, crack like the sound of 

 great guns, snap off, and so — sic transit gloria mundi — 

 the professional beauty of one day becomes the 

 wreck of ages of another. It is at such moments as 

 these that we recall the words of Tennyson : 



O, art thou sighing for Lebanon, 



. . . . sighing for Lebanon, dark Cedar? 



And like children crying for the moon, they still 

 sigh on, and in vain. 



How wtII I can remember on a cold winter 

 night succeeding in averting such a disaster to 

 a favourite tree, by dislodging from its tabuliform 

 branches, with the aid of a fire engine and other chilly 

 helpmates, collected masses of fallen snow. 



The Cedar may, and possibly does, enjoy immunity 

 from the shrivelling — not always — effects of lightning, 

 but the season of snows — like the whirligig of time — 

 makes counter revenges and takes a heavy toll. On 

 one day it is accounted the pride and glory of the 

 lawn or country-side ; in a few succeeding hours the 

 scene may have changed, disastrously changed. 

 The storm may have broken upon it, and there may 

 only remain a memory of lost delight amid a debris 

 of broken boughs. 



The true Cedars do not enjoy that monoply of 

 name that they, de jure and de factOy are entitled 

 to. The Greek word fceSpof; seems, according to 

 Liddell and Scott and other pundits of classical renown, 

 to have applied more to the Juniper than the Cedar 



