OLD EOADS. 



I cannot say that I am an admirer of those tasteful 

 operations which are commonly termed improvements, 

 and seldom observe them without a feeling of regret. 

 More of the beauty of landscape is destroyed every 

 year by attempts to improve it, than by the ignorant or 

 avaricious woodman who cuts down his trees for the 

 railroad or the shipyard. There is a certain kind of 

 beauty which ought to be cherished by the people of 

 every land ; including all such appearances as have arisen 

 from operations not designed to create embellishment. 

 As soon as we begin to cultivate a garden or decorate a 

 house or an enclosure with the hope of dazzling the 

 public eye, at that moment the spell of beauty is broken, 

 and all the enchantment vanishes. There is something 

 exceedingly delightful in the ornaments that have arisen 

 spontaneously in those grounds which, after they were 

 once reduced to tillage, have been left for many years 

 in the primitive hands of Nature. Tain are all our at- 

 tempts to imitate these indescribable beauties, such as 

 we find along the borders of an old rustic farm, on an 

 old roadside, or in a pasture that is overgrown with spon- 

 taneous shrubbery. 



This kind of scenery is common in almost all those 

 old roads which are not used as thoroughfares, but as 

 avenues of communication between our small country 

 villages. Our land is full of these rustic by-ways; 

 and the rude scenery about them is more charming to 

 my sight than the most highly ornamented landscapes 



